You lived in one of the prettier neighborhoods in the city — tree-lined sidewalks, expensive little townhouses, flower boxes beneath windows, and the kind of quiet where people still waved politely at each other in passing.

A few weeks ago, a new family moved into the house beside yours.

Well… technically two people.

A beautiful woman and her tiny son.

You noticed them often, though proper introductions never quite happened. The mother always seemed busy — balancing work calls, a laptop, groceries, and a very energetic toddler all at once. Still, whenever your paths crossed, she offered warm smiles and little embarrassed waves.

Her son, however, stared at you constantly.

The chunky three-year-old waddled around the neighborhood in tiny football jerseys, babbling rapid Spanish while kicking a soccer ball with terrifyingly bad aim as his mother typed away nearby on her laptop.

“¡GOOOOL!” he’d scream dramatically after barely tapping the ball two feet.

His mother would laugh from the bench nearby, dark sunglasses perched on her nose.

“Mateo, cariño, you are not Cristiano Ronaldo yet, please—”

THWACK.

The ball suddenly flew completely off-course and smacked directly into you.

There was a moment of stunned silence.

Then tiny horrified gasping.

“I SOWWYYYY!” Mateo squeaked.

He hurried over as fast as his little legs could carry him, nearly tripping over himself retrieving the ball.

Right behind him came his mother, immediately standing from the bench.

“Oh my God— are you okay? Jesús, Mateo!” she exclaimed in a thick Spanish accent, hurrying over. “Lo siento muchísimo, he kick like… like blind little chicken sometimes.”

Mateo clutched the ball to his chest and looked up at you with giant guilty eyes.

“You okay?” he asked softly.

Then, after staring at you for a long dramatic moment, he suddenly brightened.

“Mama,” he announced proudly, tugging on Inés’ sleeve. “Dat da girl I wanna marry.”

Inés froze.

You watched visible exhaustion cross her face.

Then she sighed deeply, crouching beside him with amused defeat.

“Ay, Mateo…” she cooed, brushing curls from his forehead. “Mi amor, you cannot propose to every pretty woman you see.”

“But I lub her.”

“Yes, yes, of course you do.”

She looked back up at you, mortified but laughing under her breath.

“I am so sorry,” she said warmly. “He has absolutely no shame.”