The doctors called it psychogenic dysphagia, but I called it a broken heart. I had to learn to feed myself differently. “And how exactly did you do that?” A voice came from behind Rodrigo. It was Dr. Ramírez, Mateo’s dietitian. He came out of another room and overheard part of the conversation. “It’s not just about the food, Doctor,” Daniel explained.
It’s about how it’s served, the atmosphere, the person who offers it. Everything matters when the problem isn’t in the stomach but in the heart. Pseudoscience, Dr. Ramírez muttered. But curiosity glimmered in his eyes. “Give me five minutes!” Daniel pleaded, looking straight at Rodrigo. “If this doesn’t work, I’m leaving and never coming back.”
“But if you do, your son will eat.” Rodrigo looked at Mateo. The boy was still watching Daniel with that unusual intensity. In recent days, Mateo had become a shadow, indifferent and distant. Seeing any reaction was a minor miracle. “Three minutes,” Rodrigo admitted hoarsely. “And I’ll stay here the whole time.”
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