The wealthy boss thought it would be fun. He asked his son to choose a new mother from among the models at the party. But when the boy pointed out the young cleaning lady in a corner of the room, everyone held their breath. The room was filled with lights, soft music, and fake laughter. Everyone was dressed to the nines, with suits that smelled new and dresses that sparkled like jewels. It was the typical night when rich people played at feeling important, surrounded by drinks, expensive faces, and empty conversations. Amidst it all, Mauricio Herrera moved like a fish in water with his calm smile, his perfectly trimmed beard, and his black suit without a single wrinkle; he seemed to have everything under control. No one imagined him carrying the pain he’d carried inside since his wife died. But that night wasn’t one for crying. It was a charity gala he himself had organized, complete with a live orchestra to help children with rare diseases, although in reality everyone knew it was an excuse for businessmen to show off and take photos with good faces.

Mauricio, a millionaire since his 30s thanks to an inheritance and well-managed business, had grown accustomed to these kinds of events, although nothing had excited him since his wife’s death. He had also brought his son, Emiliano, to the event, a 6-year-old boy with a serious face and big eyes. Many said he looked just like his mother. Although he barely spoke to the adults, the boy never left his father’s side. That night, he had him sitting on his lap, bored, while the master of ceremonies continued to thank everyone for their donations.

It was then that, to kill time, Mauricio decided to make a joke, something trivial. He leaned slightly toward his son and, without thinking much about it, said in a low voice, “Let’s see, Emy, which of these ladies would you like to be your new mother?” The boy looked at him, confused. Mauricio giggled, half playfully, half daring himself to say something he didn’t have the courage to mean. Models walked past them, hired to serve wine, pose for photos, and walk elegantly around the room.

There were magazine-worthy blondes, brunettes with intense gazes, and women in dresses so tight they looked like they couldn’t breathe. Most of the guests turned to look at them, some discreetly, others without shame. Mauricio expected the boy to point at one of them playfully, but what happened left him speechless. Emiliano didn’t look at any of the models; instead, he pointed with his little finger toward a corner of the room, right where a young woman was crouching. She was cleaning the floor with a rag, wearing a light gray uniform, her hair tied back, and without a drop of makeup.

She was a worker there, one of the cleaning staff. Mauricio frowned at her, surprised, asking. The boy nodded without taking his eyes off her. “Why?” Mauricio insisted, trying to understand. Emiliano, in a low but firm voice, said, “Because she looks like my mom.” There was a strange silence in Mauricio’s mind. He didn’t know what to say. Instinctively, he turned to look at her. The girl was still on her knees, carving a spot in the white marble, unaware that someone was watching her.

She was thin, fair-skinned, with a serious but calm expression. There was something familiar about her eyes, though he couldn’t say that the resemblance to his wife wasn’t exact. But there was something about her gaze. Or perhaps in the way she focused on what she was doing. Mauricio remained silent. It wasn’t a situation he could simply laugh and let go. For the first time in a long time, something stirred in his chest. It wasn’t love or desire, it was curiosity, a kind of discomfort mixed with intrigue.

The rest of the night continued, but he wasn’t the same. Every time he turned to that corner, he saw her there doing her job, not looking at anyone. While the models posed and the wives of businessmen talked about their travels, she continued cleaning without anyone noticing—no one, except a 6-year-old boy and a man who had buried his wife two years earlier. Later, when the event was over, Mauricio couldn’t help but ask about her.

He didn’t want to seem strange or get into trouble, so he spoke to his trusted assistant, Sergio, a discreet man who knew when to ask questions and when not to. He asked him to find out who he was, his name, and if he always worked there. Sergio raised an eyebrow but didn’t say anything. He nodded and went to investigate. That night, when they returned home, Emiliano fell asleep in the car. Mauricio picked him up and carried him to bed.

Then he stared at an old photo in the living room. His wife, Alejandra, smiling with Emiliano in her arms. It had been a long time since he’d last seen her. Sometimes he dreamed about her, sometimes he avoided it, but that night he couldn’t help but remember her eyes. The next day, Sergio arrived with the details. The girl’s name was Fernanda Morales. She was 29 years old. She lived in a lower-middle-class area on the east side of the city and worked in two different places.

In the event hall at night and in an office cleaning in the morning. He did it all to support his mother, who had been ill for a couple of years. Mauricio thought for a long time. He didn’t say anything else, just asked for the push-to contact information for the salon where he worked. Sergio raised his eyebrow again, but didn’t ask anything. He’d already learned that when Mauricio had something on his mind, it was best not to question it.

Tonight, while the rest of the world was lost in TV shows, expensive dinners, or Friday nights, Mauricio sat alone in his studio, staring out the window with a glass of whiskey in his hand, thinking about Fernanda—not in a romantic way, nor with any clear intentions, just thinking, wondering why, among so many women in shiny dresses and fake smiles, his son had chosen her, the only one who didn’t seem to want to attract attention. And the strangest thing of all is that for the first time in a long time, he wanted to know more, too.

Mauricio didn’t usually do these things. He wasn’t one of those people to obsess over someone without even knowing them. His life, since Alejandra’s death, had been work, numbers, meetings, expensive food, and silence. A lot of silence. But ever since that gala night, something had stuck in his head. He didn’t know what exactly it was, the girl’s gaze. The way his son pointed at her without hesitation, or perhaps how much she resembled a person who was no longer there, he didn’t know, but the image of that woman bent down, cleaning the floor, followed him like a shadow.

The following Monday, while his chauffeur was driving him to a meeting, Mauricio was riding in the backseat, staring into space. Sergio, his assistant, glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. He knew exactly what he was thinking, because the day before, without Mauricio even asking, he had already researched everything he could about the woman. Fernanda Morales, born in Iztapalapa, was an only child. Her father had died when she was 13, and from then on, her mother had taken care of everything until she fell ill three years ago.

Since then, Fernanda worked day and night to pay for medicine, food, rent, transportation, and everything else a life like that entails. Sergio sat across from him in the office, took out his cell phone, and showed him a photo he’d found. It was from Facebook, old, poorly framed, but her face was visible. Mauricio looked at it for a few seconds, said nothing, just nodded. Then he asked her where she worked during the day. Sergio explained that in the mornings she cleaned offices in a building in Polanco.

Mauricio didn’t say he was going, but that same week he ordered a surprise inspection at the same place. He didn’t even get out the first time, just a warning. He saw her leave through the staff entrance. She was carrying a sweaty backpack over her shoulder, her uniform wrinkled, and her hair wet, as if she’d washed her face in a hurry. She crossed the street without looking at anyone, taking quick steps and without stopping. It was obvious she was in a hurry. Mauricio asked the driver to follow her at a distance.

He felt strange doing it, but he couldn’t help it. He wanted to know more, not out of morbid curiosity or because he wanted to pry into her life, but to understand what it was about her that moved him so deeply. They followed her to a working-class area in the eastern part of the city. She got off at a street lined with closed-down shops and houses jammed together. She entered an old building with peeling paint. It didn’t take long. About 40 minutes later, she emerged wearing a different blouse, carrying a cloth bag, and a bottle of water.

The driver asked if they were continuing. Mauricio said no, that he’d had enough. He didn’t want to intrude any further. But the sight of that woman getting off a minibus, entering Minus, a seedy building, and then walking out as if nothing had happened, left him uneasy. That night he didn’t eat dinner. He stayed in his study with his computer on, reading emails without concentrating. Emiliano came in for a while to tell him something about school, but Mauricio barely listened. Only when his son told him he’d made a drawing of his mother and wanted to show it to her did he react, sitting next to him on the rug and listening attentively.

The drawing was simple. A woman in a blue dress, a boy with a happy face, and a tall man in a suit. The curious thing was that the woman didn’t have the same hairstyle Alejandra used to wear. Mauricio noticed. “Is that how you remember your mother?” he asked. “No. That’s what Mrs. Fernanda looks like,” the boy replied, as if it were the most normal thing in the world. Mauricio felt a pang in his chest; he didn’t complain, he just hugged him. He held the drawing in his hand, staring at those poorly done lines, yet full of meaning.

The girl in the drawing had her hair up, just like the girl in the salon. The next day he went to work as usual: meetings, calls, important decisions. But one afternoon, when he had a free spot, he went down to the parking lot, got in his truck, and asked the driver to take him back to where Fernanda worked. This time he got out, entered the building as if he were going to a regular meeting, and went up to the floor where she cleaned.

He didn’t speak to her; he just watched her from a distance. She was mopping an empty office with her headphones on. She moved quickly, as if she had to finish by a specific time. When she finished, she took a rag out of her bag and began wiping down the desks. She didn’t seem to notice her surroundings. She didn’t look at anyone. Mauricio felt enormous respect for her, for her way of working, for the way she never stopped for a second. He didn’t know anything about her personal life, but her effort was evident in every movement.

Later, she spoke with Sergio and asked him to do a thorough review of her situation, not to upset her, but to find out if there was anything he could help her with without making her feel uncomfortable. Sergio, although already somewhat accustomed to Mauricio’s whims, asked if he wasn’t exaggerating. “She’s just a girl. There are thousands like her,” he said. Mauricio looked at him seriously. “No, not like her.” That night, Sergio handed him a short report. Fernanda had a mother named Lidia Morales, 63 years old, with kidney problems.

She couldn’t work. She’d been undergoing treatment for months. The doctors said she needed dialysis, but they didn’t have the money to pay for it. Fernanda earned just enough to keep them from being kicked out of the apartment, and it was barely enough for generic medicine. They received no help from anyone, had no close relatives, and only had each other. Mauricio read that for several minutes, said nothing, just closed the folder and sat on the couch with the lights off.

The next day, he saw Fernanda again. He went to the event hall without her noticing. He saw her laying out tablecloths, arranging chairs, cleaning bathrooms. And every time he watched her, it became clearer to him that it wasn’t just interest, it was admiration, because he didn’t know many people who would do so much for someone without expecting anything in return. Because in a world full of people selling themselves for a penny, she struggled every day without complaining, because she had nothing.

And yet, she kept trying as if she had everything. And that’s when Mauricio began to wonder something he hadn’t dared to think about since Alejandra died. What would happen if, for once in his life, he let himself be carried away by what he felt? Fernanda’s alarm clock rang at 5 o’clock, like every day. Her room was dark, barely lit by a small lamp that flickered occasionally. She got up quietly, walked barefoot to the bathroom, and splashed water on her face.

Her eyes were swollen, not because she’d been crying, but because of the tiredness that had been building in her body for months. She dressed quickly: jeans, a simple blouse, an old sweater, and a backpack where she packed her lunch, hand sanitizer, and a water bottle. In the kitchen, she had already prepared breakfast for her mother: a smoothie, chopped fruit, and the pills separated by time. She walked to the next room, slowly opened the door, and found her mother asleep, her thin body wrapped in a flowery blanket.

She kissed him on the forehead and left breakfast on the table. Then she left for work. At the same time, in another part of the city, Mauricio was still asleep in his enormous bedroom, with ironed white sheets and the heating set at exactly 20 degrees. Emiliano was sleeping in the next room with a dinosaur lamp on and his favorite stuffed animal in his arms. Breakfast was already being prepared in the kitchen: freshly squeezed juice, toast, fresh fruit, and eggs any style.

Everything was ready, although they wouldn’t get up for another hour. Fernanda, on the other hand, was hanging onto the door of a minibus that had already been packed from the first stop. She held on tightly with one hand, her backpack with the other as the truck lurched forward. It was still dark outside, but the traffic was already starting to move like every morning. She didn’t have time to think much, just to make it through the day. When she arrived at the Polanco building where she cleaned offices, she greeted the security guard with a tired smile and went up to the eighth floor.

There, like every day, he put on his gloves, took out the cleaning fluids, and started working without wasting any time. He had three hours to leave everything spotless before the employees arrived, and if he was late, they’d dock his day. Meanwhile, at Mauricio’s house, the chauffeur had the van ready. The boy got in with his ironed uniform, a new backpack, and a limp smile because he didn’t want to go to school. Mauricio accompanied him as always, wearing his elegant suit, his hair combed without a single hair out of place.

On the way, they talked about anything and everything: a game, a new toy, or the drawing Emiliano had done the night before. They seemed like a peaceful family, but Mauricio still had in mind the woman he saw cleaning offices the other day. Fernanda finished her shift at 9:30, put away her things, washed her hands, and left without saying much. She walked two blocks to the subway stop, got off the platform, and waited. She hadn’t had breakfast, but she was used to it.

His next job started at 11:00 a.m., at an event venue south of the city. If he arrived late, they’d take away his day’s bonus. He couldn’t afford that luxury. Mauricio, on the other hand, arrived at his office in Santa Fe, drank a coffee with almond milk, checked emails on his state-of-the-art computer, and had an hour-long meeting with partners from another company. No one seemed distracted, but he couldn’t stop thinking about something he didn’t understand. Oh, anyway, why had Fernanda gotten into his head?

In the afternoon, Fernanda arrived at her second job. The gray uniform was too big for her, her sneakers were old, but she always wore her hair neatly tied back. Even though her back ached and her feet burned, she didn’t complain. She greeted the managers, folded tablecloths, moved tables, and carried out trays. She went from one place to another as if she had a motor. A coworker asked her if she never got tired. Fernanda smiled and said, “Of course I get tired, but I have no choice.”

That day there was a birthday party for a rich girl, with balloons, clowns, fancy food, even a DJ with colored lights. Fernanda watched it all from the bar while washing glasses. She didn’t feel envy or sadness. She just watched as if she were watching a movie where she would never be on camera. Mauricio, meanwhile, went to a dinner with investors at an elegant restaurant. They ate cobe beef, drank imported wine, and talked about millions as if they were coins.

When they left, they invited him to a club, but he refused. He said he had things to do. He didn’t really want to talk to anyone. All he thought about was how far away he lived from everything that really mattered, how long he’d been surrounded by people who only said what he wanted to hear, and that woman who, without speaking to him, already told him more than everyone else. That same night, Fernanda returned home with numb legs and cracked hands.

He entered carefully, went straight to his mother’s room, and found her asleep. He gently stroked her hair and then went to take a bath. The water was lukewarm, sometimes cold. He washed his body with a worn bar of soap and sat for a few minutes on the floor with his head between his knees. She didn’t cry; she couldn’t even cry anymore. On the other side of town, Mauricio opened a bottle of wine, poured himself a glass, and went out into the garden.

He sat in one of the chairs in the backyard, looking at the city lights in the distance. The house was silent. Emiliano was sleeping, and for the first time in a long time, he felt completely alone, not only inside but also outside. That’s when he realized that his world and Fernanda’s had nothing in common, that he had everything but a life, and that she, with so little, carried an entire world.

Wednesday started like any other for Fernanda. She woke up to the same old sound: the squealing alarm on her cheap cell phone. Her body was complaining. She had a slight ache in her lower back and a burning pain in her heels, but she couldn’t stop. She took an ice-cold shower, put on her light gray uniform, and prepared breakfast for her mom. Then she ran out the door, like every morning, catching the subway with the clock ticking. What she didn’t know was that this day was going to be different, because that morning someone else was also on their way to the same place as her.

Mauricio had decided not to think about it anymore. He didn’t want to just watch her from afar anymore. He didn’t know what he was going to say or how that would sound without seeming weird, but he did know he needed to talk to her. Just like that, the hours passed. Fernanda had already mopped the second-floor hallway, dusted desks, and cleaned the women’s restroom. She was about to head to the dining room for a coffee when she heard a call from reception. One of the managers told her they needed to clean an office on the 7th floor immediately because they were having a special meeting.

She went upstairs without thinking, with the cleaning cart, not imagining what she was going to find. The office was large, with an incredible view of the city. It had dark furniture, books arranged on glass shelves, and a rug that clearly cost more than all the clothes Fernanda had in her closet. She wasn’t impressed. She had cleaned more luxurious places before, but what really threw her off was that when she opened the door, she walked straight into a man waiting for her.

Good morning, Mauricio said. Calmly, with his hands in his pockets. Fernanda froze. She recognized him instantly. It was him, the organizer of the event where she worked just a week ago. She’d seen him in photos, on the news, in the magazines the lady at the newsstand left outside, one of those seemingly untouchable entrepreneurs, and now he was standing in front of her. “Did you ask me to come clean?” she asked, trying to sound confident, even though her heart was pounding in her throat.

“No, I just wanted to talk to you.” Fernanda tensed. Her first thought was, “I did something wrong. I accidentally broke something at the gala. Had anyone complained about her? They were going to fire her. It’s because of the event,” she began, “but Mauricio interrupted her with a gesture. It’s not because of that. Calm down.” She gripped the mop tightly. She didn’t know whether to stay or leave. All the possibilities of what could be happening began to run through her head.

They were going to complain, propose something strange, ask her to sign something. Mauricio noticed it. He noticed the way she became defensive, as if life had already pushed her against the wall many times. It seemed unfair to him that someone like that should be afraid even during a simple conversation. “I saw how you worked,” he said at the event. “And here I just wanted to tell you that I admire your way of doing things.” Fernanda looked at him with narrowed eyes.

She hadn’t remotely expected that answer. That’s all. Yes. Silence. Neither of them knew quite how to continue. She continued standing with the mop in her hand, unsure whether to thank him, run away, or wait for instructions. He, for his part, didn’t want to seem crazy. He just felt the need to make it clear that he’d noticed her, that something about her had stuck in his head. “My name’s Mauricio,” he finally said, extending his hand. Fernanda hesitated for two seconds and then shook it.

Hers was covered in marks from the chemicals and the work, but she was firm, Fernanda. And that was it. He didn’t ask for her number, didn’t offer her anything, just nodded, as if that conversation had been enough. She picked up her mop, looked down, turned around, and left. When she got into the elevator, she stared at her reflection in the metal door for a few seconds. She didn’t understand a thing. She went down to her own floor and continued working as if nothing had happened.

But something inside her wasn’t the same. She couldn’t stop thinking about that strange scene. Why him? Why her? What was he supposed to be doing with this? He didn’t ask for favors, offer her money, or mistreat her. He just looked at her the way no one had looked at her in years, straight in the eyes, as if what she was doing had value. That same day, at home, while washing the dishes after dinner, her mother noticed she was distracted.

Are you okay, mija? Yes, ma, I’m just tired. But it wasn’t that. I had a strange feeling in my chest. It wasn’t fear. It was like a small spark I didn’t know whether to extinguish or leave burning. Across town, Mauricio was also silent, sitting in front of his computer, not touching the keyboard. His head was spinning, but not from work. He felt like someone just waking up from something that had been dormant for a long time. It wasn’t love, not yet, but it was something.

And even though it was just an exchange of words, something shifted that day. In both of them. Two days passed after that awkward conversation between Fernanda and Mauricio. Two days in which she forced herself not to think about it, even though inside she couldn’t stop mulling it over. It was as if a part of her mind wanted to convince herself that nothing had happened, that it was just a random comment, a curious moment, and that was it. But the truth is, that scene had stuck to her like gum on the sole of her shoe.

Meanwhile, Mauricio wasn’t much for beating around the bush. But with Fernanda, he was, not because he didn’t know what he wanted to do, but because he didn’t know how she would react. He didn’t see her as someone who would be impressed by a new truck or an expensive restaurant. On the contrary, he saw her as one of those people who, if pressured, would close like a double-locked door. That’s why he wasn’t direct. He spoke with Sergio, his assistant, and asked him to carefully craft a proposal, something clean, without sounding invasive or strange.

Sergio, although he didn’t quite understand what was happening, did as he was asked. He called the place where Fernanda worked nights, introduced himself as part of Mr. Herrera’s team, and asked to speak with her. He was told she was folding tablecloths and wanted to leave a message. Sergio insisted. In the end, the shift manager came to get her. Fernanda thought it was an emergency with her mother. She dropped what she was doing and ran to the phone. When she heard someone speaking on behalf of Mauricio, she felt like her stomach was tightening.

Good evening, Fernanda Morales. Yes, who’s speaking? My name is Sergio. I work with Mr. Mauricio Herrera. He asked me to speak with you to make you a job offer. It would be a permanent position with better salary and benefits. If you’re interested, we could schedule a meeting tomorrow at a place of your choice. Silence. Fernanda didn’t know what to say. She looked to the side, then at the floor. Her hands were sweating. There was something about all this she didn’t like. Too fast, too perfect.

Why would someone like him want to offer a job to someone like her? What kind of job was that? Why didn’t he just say it? What kind of job is it? He asked, trying to sound firm. Mr. Herrera needs a trustworthy person to support him at home, organize his family’s schedule, help with his son’s care, and some personal administrative tasks—nothing out of the ordinary. He chose her for her attitude, responsibility, and work ethic.

She’s observed it and believes it would be a good opportunity for both of them. Fernanda remained silent for a few more seconds. Then she said she would think about it. That night she couldn’t sleep. She tossed and turned over the subject in her mind. There was something inside her that told her not to accept, not to trust, that no one gives anything without wanting something in return, especially not someone with that much money. But at the same time, what if it really was a good opportunity? What if not everyone was the same?