I Love Dogs

A THUG SPILLED BEER ON ESCOBAR'S HEAD WITHOUT KNOWING WHO HE WAS. HE REGRETS IT TO THIS DAY.
It was a hot Friday night in Medellín, 1982. Pablo Escobar had decided to break from his usual routine and visit a discreet bar in the Laureles neighborhood, far from the places where he normally met with his associates. He was dressed casually, in dark jeans and a white linen shirt, trying to blend into the crowd.
His bodyguards kept a discreet distance, mingling with the bar's patrons. La Estrella Dorada was known for its relaxed atmosphere and diverse clientele, ranging from university students to workers looking to unwind after the work week. Pablo sat at a corner table, ordered a double whiskey, and lit a Marlboro cigarette, observing the scene with that penetrating gaze that characterized the most powerful man in Colombian drug trafficking. Salsa music blared as couples
danced on the small, makeshift dance floor. At the bar, a burly man of about 30 named Rodrigo "El Toro" Mendoza downed beer after beer, celebrating with his friends a supposed victory in a street fight. Rodrigo was known in the neighborhood as a "pocamta" thug, someone who took care of minor problems for local business owners in exchange for money.
He was nearly 6'6", weighed over 220 pounds, and had a reputation as a violent man who enjoyed intimidating others. That night, alcohol had completely clouded his judgment. His friends egged him on to prove his bravery, daring him to harass some of the bar's patrons. Rodrigo, with the typical arrogance of someone who thinks the world belongs to him, began pacing among the tables, looking for a victim for his next show of force.
His eyes fell on Pablo, who remained calm in his corner, seemingly alone and vulnerable. To Rodrigo, that man of average height and ordinary appearance seemed like the perfect target. He approached unsteadily, holding a bottle of Club Colombia beer in his right hand.
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MY WIFE TOLD ME THAT THE BABYSITTER WAS LYING, BUT MY CHILDREN CALLED HER "THE BAD AUNT". I INSTALLED CAMERAS TO DISCOVER THE TRUTH AND WHAT BROKE MY HEART: THE WOMAN I SLEPT WITH WAS A MONSTER AND WAS DESTROYING MY CHILDREN.

La Moraleja's mansion felt strangely quiet. The kind of silence that precedes a storm, dense and charged with electricity. I dropped the keys on the marble console in the hall, the metallic jingle echoing in the void. He had just landed from a whirlwind trip to Barcelona, a day ahead of schedule. A hunch, a restlessness that had gnawed inside me throughout the flight, made me advance the return. And then I heard it.

It wasn't a normal cry, a child's whimper over a broken toy or a scraped knee. It was a deep, torn lament, a sound that froze your blood and made your hair stand on end. A sound of pure desolation.

“Mateo! Sebastian!”, my voice sounded hoarse as I climbed the stairs two by two, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. Every step increased my panic. The corridor on the top floor seemed endless. Her bedroom door was ajar. I pushed her and the scene that received me paralyzed me, stealing my breath.

Soledad, our nanny for three years, was sitting on the floor, rocking my two six-year-olds in her arms. The three of them were crying. No, crying was not the right word. They were mired in such overwhelming grief that they looked like a physical entity in the room. Mateo had his face buried in Soledad's shoulder, his small body shaken by uncontrollable sobs. Sebastian clung to his arm as if it were an anchor in the middle of a raging ocean.

“What happened here?” I managed to ask, my voice barely a whisper. I knelt beside them, panic giving way to a cold, paralyzing fear.

Soledad looked up. His eyes, normally warm and friendly, were red and swollen, devastated. In the three years she had been working for us, I had never seen her like this. "Mr. Diego, I..." he swallowed, trying to recover, wiping his tears with the back of his hand. “The kids… they were really scared when I arrived this morning.”

“Scared of what?”, I took Mateo's face in my hands. He was drenched in tears and snot, his eyes swollen until they almost closed. My son kept sobbing, a pitiful sound that broke my soul. “What happened to my children?”

Soledad looked at the door, as if she was afraid the walls would have ears. Then, in a barely audible whisper, he dropped the bomb that would blow my world to pieces. “Mrs. Valeria… had an argument with them last night, after you left for the airport.”

“An argument?” I frowned. Confusion began to swirl in my mind. “They're six-year-olds, Soledad. What kind of discussion?”

"He yelled things at them... very ugly things about his mother, about Elena."

The world teetered. Elena. My first wife, the love of my life, the mother of my twins. She died of cancer two years ago. The pain of his loss was a wound that had never finished closing, a scar that often hurt to the touch. Why would Valeria, my current wife, talk about Elena with the kids?

“What kind of things?” I asked, a part of me terrified of the answer I knew was coming.

Soledad hugged the children tighter, as if to protect them from the very words she was about to utter. "Sir, I don't know if I should...".

“He told them that their mom Elena abandoned them because she didn't love them enough. That's why he got sick and died... and that now they were trapped with a stepmother who doesn't want them."

I felt like I had been hit in the stomach with a baseball bat, taking all the air out of my lungs. It couldn't be. Valeria couldn't have said that. My Valeria, the woman I had met in the corridors of the hospital during Elena's last and terrible days. The compassionate nurse who had become my friend, my confidant, and finally, my wife. The one who was always so sweet, so patient with the children... at least, when I was present.

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