Left unsaid

The grief we never shared

They lost their daughter six years ago. They have never said her name together.

Nuria (39) and David (41) lost their daughter at thirty-eight weeks, six years ago. He "stayed strong" and went back to work within a week; she read it as coldness and never quite forgave it. They have another child, they function, they love each other. But there is a box on top of the wardrobe that neither of them opens.

This chapter deals with the loss of a baby.

Staying was the hard part

Everyone tells the affair story. Nobody tells the two years after.

Two years ago Carmen (37) found out Óscar (39) was seeing someone else. They chose to stay. He has lived in permanent penance since; she keeps the weapon and draws it in every argument. Both are exhausted by a forgiveness that never quite arrives — this session is about why.

This chapter deals with infidelity and its aftermath.

The desire that left

They love each other. They care for each other. They have not touched in a year and a half.

Silvia (43) and Julio (45), eighteen years together, two kids. You would never guess: they laugh, they care, they sometimes sleep in an embrace. But it has been a year and a half without intimacy and neither knows how to raise it without it sounding like blame. He approaches with fear; she has moved out of her own body. The taboo no couple talks about — not even with each other.

This chapter deals with desire in a couple, no explicit content.

The best medical team lost its marriage

Nine years caring for their daughter in shifts. They are never there at the same time.

Rosa (44) and Manu (46) are the parents of Alba, nine, cerebral palsy. They are a perfect logistics team: shifts, therapies, reports, split nights. Everyone admires them. What nobody sees: they have spent years never being anywhere at the same time — not with Alba, not with each other. Caring can be the noblest way to get lost.

This chapter deals with raising a disabled daughter.

The call I never made

His father left him a voice note on a Tuesday. He died on Friday. The note is still there.

Tomás (52) lost his father eleven months ago. Their second-to-last conversation was an absurd argument about a van; the last one never happened: a WhatsApp voice note — "call me when you can, son" — that Tomás meant to answer on Sunday. His father died on Friday. Eleven months later the note is still saved and Tomás can neither delete it nor play it. This session is about what guilt does to grief — and about the four-sentence letter.

This chapter deals with the death of a father and with guilt.

Eight years without my brother

He lives twelve minutes away. The text gets written in this session.

Quique (47) has not spoken to his brother Nacho since their mother's funeral eight years ago: a badly split inheritance, one sentence said at the worst moment, two identical prides. They live twelve minutes apart. Their kids are cousins who have never met. In this session Quique finds out what really lives under the anger — and writes, word by word, the first message in eight years. And sends it.

My mother no longer knows who I am

There is a grief that begins before death. And another way of being loved.

Inés's (55) mother has advanced Alzheimer's. Four months ago she stopped recognising her entirely: she now receives her like a kind visitor. Inés leaves every visit destroyed from fighting to be remembered — until in this session she finds another way into the room. This is not a session about memory: it is about love when memory can no longer carry it.

This chapter deals with a mother's Alzheimer's.

The father I failed to be

His kids treat him with respect and distance. Just like he treated his own father.

Paco (61) was the father his era prescribed: twelve-hour days, never absent, never a hug. His kids are adults now and treat him with a frozen respect he knows too well: the same he gave his own father. Now his son Sergio is about to become a father — and for the first time Paco has a deadline to break a three-generation chain. In his wallet there is a photo Sergio has never seen.

The empty house

Thirty years being somebody's mother. Who is she when nobody needs her?

Lourdes's (58) youngest left for Berlin five months ago. She still buys six yoghurts, runs half-empty washing machines to hear some noise and overcooks on Sundays "just in case". Everyone tells her it is her time to live now — but nobody explains how you live when you have postponed yourself for thirty years. A session about the empty nest that is really about something else: a woman who parked herself in 1994.

Loving again at seventy-two

He caught himself smiling and felt like a traitor.

Ernesto (72) lost Amparo three years ago, after forty-six years together. At the seniors' centre he has met Maribel: they play dominoes, she saves him a seat, he walks home whistling. And every time he catches himself happy, he punishes himself. He has not told his kids, he still sets out two cups from habit and there is an armchair nobody sits in. A session about permission to stay alive — and who can truly grant it.

This chapter deals with widowhood and rebuilding a life.

My son won't pick up the phone

Fourteen months of silence. And an apology she has not yet learned to give.

Charo's (63) son stopped speaking to her fourteen months ago, after a Christmas Eve when she "only said what she thought" about his life choices and his partner. Since then: unanswered calls, a silent birthday and a shame she can tell nobody — because estranged parents are a taboo. This session does not promise the son's return. It teaches something harder: the difference between apologising and defending yourself, and how to love someone who has set a boundary.