There was a harmony between them that he had never witnessed between ordinary siblings. When Marcos went out to get dessert, Cassandra, who had refused to leave despite repeated requests, watched the scene from the kitchen doorway, her face a mask of disapproval. “Do you really think he cares?” she said suddenly, her sharp voice interrupting the peaceful meal. “He’s just using you to ease his conscience before he dies. When that happens, in a few weeks you’ll be back on the streets, or worse, separated somehow.”
The girls stood motionless, staring at Cassandra with expressions of shock and pain. Tears began to well up in Iris’s eyes, while Isabel and Laya adopted protective postures. It was then that they noticed Marco standing in the doorway of the dining room, having just returned with desserts he wanted to show them. His face was pale, not only from his illness, but from the shock of hearing Cassandra so cruelly reveal her diagnosis and from seeing the pain in the eyes of the girls who, in just one day, had come to mean so much to him.
“So, is it true?” Laya asked, her voice small but firm, looking directly at Marco, who was just entering the kitchen. “You’re dying like our father.” Marco stood motionless in the doorway, the dessert tray trembling slightly in his hands. Laya’s direct question hung in the air like a sentence, demanding a truth he wasn’t prepared to share. His expression, usually controlled after years of high-level negotiations, now revealed a startling vulnerability.
Cassandra stood there, a cruel smile on her painted lips, reveling in the discomfort she had created. The triplets waited, locked together as always, their identical eyes fixed on him, not with judgment, but with a painful understanding that girls their age shouldn’t possess. “Yes,” he finally answered, placing the tray on the table with deliberate care. “The doctors say I have advanced pancreatic cancer, but that doesn’t change anything about the agreement we made.” Cassandra laughed, a cold, calculated sound that echoed off the immaculate kitchen tiles.
She crossed her arms over her expensive dress, satisfaction evident in every line of her elegant body. The girls, however, didn’t seem surprised or horrified by the revelation. Instead of aloofness, their faces showed a deep understanding and compassion that Marco hadn’t expected. Isabel, ever observant, studied him with analytical eyes, as if assessing his true condition beyond appearances. “How much time do you have left?” Isabel asked directly, her voice calm and pragmatic as always. “We need to know so we can prepare.”
Marco shot Cassandra a withering look before plodding heavily into the nearest chair. The room briefly spun around him, a reminder of his fragile condition. The triplets watched him intently, not with pity, but with practical curiosity. For the first time in his adult life, Marco decided there was no reason to hide the truth or soften it. These girls had faced death up close and deserved his honesty. “A month, according to my doctor,” he replied, his voice steady, “maybe less, considering I ignored the recommendation to stay in the hospital.”
Iris, who had been silent until then, suddenly rose from her chair and approached Marco. Without hesitation, she placed her small hand on his, a surprisingly mature gesture of comfort. Her eyes, though identical to her sisters’ in shape and color, held a unique sensitivity that touched him deeply. For a fleeting moment, Marco wondered what it would have been like to have children, to have invested his time in people instead of bank accounts and acquisitions. “Dad was in a lot of pain before he passed away, too,” Iris said gently, squeezing Marco’s hand.
She tried to hide it, but we always knew. Cassandra’s provocative presence was becoming increasingly unbearable. With an exasperated sigh, she grabbed her designer handbag from the chair where she’d left it and walked to the kitchen door, her high heels clicking sharply against the floor. She stopped in the doorway and turned, her perfect profile framed by the elegant Marco. “This is pathetic, Marco,” she blurted out. “Poison dripping from every syllable. You always wanted a family, and now you’re improvising one with street orphans.”
I’ll call your lawyer tomorrow about the will. After Cassandra finally left, a comforting silence fell over the kitchen. The triplets finished their meal in silence, each lost in her own thoughts. Marco watched them, admiring the resilience they displayed despite everything they had been through. There was dignity in how they dealt with the loss, a strength many adults he knew lacked. When they finally retired to bed, Marco lay awake, reflecting on his life choices and contemplating how little time he had left.
“It’s strange how in the end it’s three little strangers who make me question everything,” he murmured to himself, gazing out the wide window at the night. “What a waste my life has been.” The days that followed created a surprisingly comfortable routine in the mansion. The triplets, though still wary, began to adjust to their new surroundings. The social worker made her daily visits, always suspicious, but unable to deny that the girls were being well cared for. Marco had hired private tutors to begin helping them catch up on the school time they had missed during their father’s illness.
The mansion, once a monument to elegant solitude, was gradually coming to life with children’s books, colorful drawings, and the occasional sound of laughter. “I never thought I’d see this house so colorful,” the housekeeper remarked as she put away drawings the girls had made. The master seemed different too, more present despite everything. Marco, however, was getting worse with each passing day. He tried to hide his symptoms, taking pain medication when the girls weren’t around, forcing himself to eat even when he had no appetite, and resting whenever he could to conserve energy for the time he spent with them.
But it was impossible to completely hide the reality of his condition. On the morning of the fifth day, during breakfast, a particularly sharp wave of pain struck him as he poured juice for Iris. The glass slipped from his suddenly weak fingers, shattering on the floor and splattering orange juice across the pristine ground. “Excuse me,” he said, gripping the edge of the table as he closed his eyes against the stabbing pain. “I’m feeling a bit clumsy today.” The triplets exchanged concerned glances.
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