I had a dream that stirred painful memories. As I wanted to forget the details, I didn’t tell anybody about it and maybe in some way it helped erase a great part of it. When I woke up, almost by an unexplainable chance, I saw a picture from when I was 37 years old and we were with our three little ones, each of them lost in their own thoughts.

I looked at them closely and studied the attitude each of them had on the picture. And even though I had taken the picture myself, at that moment I couldn’t have even remotely imagined that someday—not so faraway—I would look at it again and our reality would be so different.

Abril was seven years old and, true to her dreamy personality, she was playing while gazing into the sky. Agustin was eighteen months old, he was barefoot and his socks were dirty; he was trying to put rocks into a small plastic cup with his chubby little hands. And Ezequiel, who was five years old, was staring off beyond a point I could never see, in love with the silence that only he can find.

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