Privacy has always been my shield. Even now, playing for one of the best football clubs in the world, I stay behind it. Let the cameras flash, let the headlines spin. They don’t know me. Growing up an Alvarez in Spain, I learned early: trust few, show little, expect less.

When my parents met Sophia Morietti, they were charmed. A student from London University, running her own café, a self-made success story. Kind. Humble. Different. They talked about her like she was a breath of fresh air.

When they proposed the marriage, I agreed. Not out of love. Out of duty. Out of curiosity, maybe.

I didn’t meet her until the wedding day.

Now, I’m in London because of her. I’m living in her small apartment until I buy something bigger. It’s cramped, and nothing like what I’m used to. But it’s where I am. She was at the table that night, surrounded by books, as usual. She barely looked up when I came in.

Then she made me cook. She handed me the knife like it was the most natural thing in the world, telling me I was going to make dinner. She didn’t ask, she didn’t suggest — she just told me. I wasn’t used to that. But I did it.

When it was finally done, I set the table and called her over. “Dinner’s ready,” I said.