Luía started her work diligently, her hands moving through the motions of cleaning, but her mind was alert to the subtle nuances of the household. She could see the little signs of chaos—crumbs under the cushions, hastily discarded toys, and drawings on the walls—that hinted at the turmoil within the family.

Despite being instructed to avoid the children, Luía’s child psychology training made her acutely aware of their presence. She could feel their eyes on her, a mix of suspicion and defiance as they watched her every move. It was clear to her that these girls were not just acting out; they were crying out for something—or someone—they had lost.

By the afternoon, Luía had cleaned most of the main areas and was headed towards the kitchen when she heard a commotion. The twins, Beatriz and Bianca, were attempting to block a door with glue, their giggles echoing down the hallway. Luía paused, a gentle smile tugging at her lips.

“Are you two building a fortress?” she asked, her tone light and without accusation.

The twins halted, their eyes wide with surprise. Luía knelt down to their level, maintaining eye contact with a warm, understanding gaze.

“You know, I used to build the best forts in my neighborhood when I was your age,” she continued, her voice inviting rather than reprimanding. “Maybe later, you can show me how you make yours?”

The twins exchanged a glance, their initial defenses momentarily lowered. “Maybe,” Beatriz said, her curiosity piqued.

As the day wore on, Luía encountered each of the girls in her own way, her interactions marked by patience and empathy. She didn’t push or pry; instead, she offered a quiet presence that seemed to promise safety and understanding.

With Mariana, the eldest, Luía simply acknowledged her intelligence, asking for suggestions on how best to arrange books in the library. With Laura, she left a small note, complimenting one of her drawings she found tucked away. For Julia, who suffered panic attacks, she discreetly placed a nightlight outside her room, shaped like a comforting moon.

And Isabela, the youngest, found a small teddy bear sitting on her bed when she awoke from her nap, a silent companion for her quiet world.

By the end of the first week, Luía had not only cleaned the house but had begun to sew the first threads of trust within the family’s fabric. She had not come to replace Claris, nor did she intend to. Instead, she offered a new kind of bridge, one built with kindness, patience, and understanding—qualities no amount of discipline could substitute.

Ricardo, observing the subtle shift in his daughters’ behaviors, realized that perhaps the miracle they needed wasn’t a replacement, but someone who could see through the chaos and respond with compassion. In Luía, they had found not a mother, but a healer for their wounded hearts.