The tycoon installed hidden cameras to monitor the new nanny, but what he discovered about his own son left him in shock.

The mansion’s black gate opened as usual, at eight o’clock in the morning, punctual as a law that no one dared to break.

The driver gave the guard a slight nod and returned to the vehicle without waiting for a response. In the back seat, Leonardo Salazar checked his phone without looking out the window, always dressed in designer suits, his hair impeccable, his clothes perfectly straight and his face expressionless. He owned one of the largest construction companies in the country, a millionaire since the age of thirty-five, but his soul had been completely empty for the last two years.

Since his wife died in a car accident, Leonardo had devoted himself entirely to his work. It was as if the rest of the world had ceased to exist. He became more serious, colder, more distant. Those who knew him before said he was no longer even a shadow of the man he once was. In his home, silence was another element of the decor, as if it were part of the furniture.

And the only one who lived with him was his five-year-old son, Diego, or Dieguito , as his mother called him. The boy barely spoke; he spent most of his time locked in his room, playing alone or watching cartoons without cracking a smile. Nannies came and went. Some couldn’t stand the boy’s temper; others couldn’t bear the coldness of the house; some tried to approach him, but on the second attempt he would slam the door in their faces or throw whatever they offered him on the floor.

Leonardo hired them based on recommendations, with impeccable resumes, experience, degrees, and training, but none lasted more than a week. In total, eight nannies had worked at the house in the last three months. Most didn’t even say goodbye.

That morning, while Leonardo was checking emails in his office, his personal assistant knocked on the door to let him know the new nanny had arrived.
“Her name is Valeria, she’s twenty-nine, and lives half an hour from here. She has experience with children, but no kids of her own. I reviewed her application and thought she was a good fit. It’s up to you,” she said without much enthusiasm, used to new nannies being just another part of the routine.

Leonardo nodded and went back to what he was doing. But before the secretary left, he looked up.
“Install cameras in the playroom and the living room. From today on, I want to monitor everything.”

She blinked, surprised, but said nothing. It wasn’t a joke. She called the technician, and in less than an hour, the system was up and running.

Leonardo could view the cameras from his cell phone or computer. He wasn’t doing it just for security; he simply didn’t trust anyone anymore. He’d had bad experiences, even with people close to him. He didn’t want to take any risks, and although he wouldn’t admit it, something was deeply troubling him.

His son wasn’t just sad; he was losing his childhood right before his eyes, and he didn’t know how to help him.

Valeria entered the house with a simple backpack, jeans, a light blouse, and a friendly expression. She didn’t look wealthy, nor did she seem like someone looking for anything more than a job. She greeted everyone with a firm but gentle voice, without any forced smiles. The housekeeper showed her where things were and explained the child’s routine.

She listened to everything without interrupting. After a few minutes, she knocked on the playroom door and entered without waiting for an answer. Dieguito was in a corner, playing with Lego pieces. He didn’t turn to look at her. Valeria didn’t force him to speak or even say hello. She simply sat down at the other end of the room, in silence. She took a box of paints and paper out of her backpack.

Without saying a word, she began to draw. She didn’t try to get the boy’s attention; she was just doing her own thing. Dieguito glanced at her, but didn’t move. About twenty minutes passed like this. Leonardo watched everything from his phone, incredulous. No babysitter had ever lasted that long without complaining or trying to force a conversation.

The first day passed without incident. Valeria didn’t get too close; she just stayed there, present. At the end of the afternoon, when the boy went to bathe, she packed her things and asked permission to leave.
“How was it?” the housekeeper asked her.
“He’s anxious,” Valeria replied with a slight smile. “He just needs time.”

No one had said that before. The others had called him spoiled, troublesome, sick.

The next day, the same scene unfolded: Valeria arrived on time, sat down in her room, picked up a jigsaw puzzle, and began working on it alone. This time, Dieguito stood up and watched her. He didn’t speak to her, but he moved a little closer. Leonardo, watching the recording, rewound the video. It wasn’t his imagination: the boy had approached her of his own accord. In the afternoon, when he reviewed the footage again, he saw that Valeria had even given him a puzzle piece. Something was changing.

Valeria didn’t use any special methods. She didn’t talk to him like a therapist. She communicated with patience and presence.

On the third day, she brought a storybook and began to read softly, as if to herself. Dieguito, sitting a few feet away, stopped playing to listen. His eyes, previously blank, showed a glimmer of curiosity. Leonardo felt a lump in his throat. It was the first time in a long time that he had seen his son interested in anything.

On the fourth day, the scene in front of the cameras changed everything. Valeria didn’t go to the playroom; she sat in the inner garden, under a large tree, with her box of paints. Dieguito watched her from the window, and after a while, he came down and sat beside her, in silence. She didn’t say anything, she just painted. Then she placed a sheet of paper and a paintbrush in front of him.

For several minutes, nothing happened. Leonardo was about to turn off the camera, frustrated. But then the boy’s small hand took the paintbrush, dipped it in blue paint—his mother’s favorite color—and drew a line. Then another. And another. He wasn’t drawing anything recognizable, but it was the first time in two years that he had expressed anything.

Leonardo held his breath. He saw Valeria looking at him with a slight smile, without interrupting him. He let it be.

That night, for the first time, Leonardo didn’t review the recordings to keep an eye on the nanny, but to look at his son. To see that fragile and precious moment when the ice around Diego’s heart began to crack. He understood, with a jolt of reality, that his obsession with controlling everything had blinded him to the true threat: his own estrangement.

The truth that shocked him wasn’t an act of negligence or malice on Valeria’s part. It was discovering his son’s profound and devastating loneliness. Understanding that the barrier Diego had built wasn’t born of anger, but of pain. And that the cure didn’t come from expensive therapies, but from the simple, patient, and resilient presence of someone who refused to give up.

Little by little, the quiet sessions in the garden became routine. Diego began to paint more; Valeria started naming the colors, making small comments:
“Today you used a strong blue.”
“That red line is very bold.”
Simple phrases, not demanding a response, but including him in a dialogue he could maintain.

Leonardo began leaving the office earlier. At first, he said nothing; he would sit on a distant bench, pretending to read, while he watched with a mixture of wonder and shame the peace that emanated between Valeria and her son. He was learning that, sometimes, caring doesn’t mean doing, but rather having the courage to sit in silence with someone’s pain.

One afternoon, it rained. Valeria and Diego took refuge on the glassed-in terrace. She drew paths of raindrops on the glass with her finger, and he, after a moment, did the same. Then he spoke, in a weak, unused voice:

—The rain tickles the glass.

Valeria didn’t turn around abruptly or make a fuss. She kept her eyes on the glass.
“Yes,” she said. “It seems to draw secret paths.”

Leonardo, looking out from the camera, felt tears burn his eyes. He hadn’t cried since the funeral. That simple phrase was more powerful than any achievement or fortune: it was life returning home.

That night she went to Diego’s room. The boy was asleep. On the nightstand was a drawing: a tall figure, dressed in black, with a sad face; on the other side, a small figure with a blue paintbrush. Between them, a bridge of colored lines.

Leonardo took the paper with trembling hands. The shock gave way to a profound understanding. The surveillance was over. He no longer needed the cameras. The truth he had feared to uncover was, in fact, the only path to salvation for both of them: he had to learn to be, for his son, what Valeria was—a refuge, a constant presence, someone willing to wait until the colors returned.

He turned off the cameras the next day. That afternoon, instead of going to the office, he went to the garden. He sat on the same bench, and when Diego looked at him, Leonardo didn’t open any report. He just stood there, present, trying, with all his clumsy and wounded being, to learn the new and most important language of his life: the language of patience.