—They can take my house away.
-Maybe.
—They can say in the village that my daughter was a criminal.
Maria Luisa closed her eyes.
-Yeah.
Teresa held the phone as if it weighed more than a stone.
He wanted to protect her. He wanted to erase everything. He wanted to go back to Cholula and pretend it had all been a bad dream.
She wanted to preserve the image of her daughter as successful, married, distant but clean.
But facing her was the truth: thin, broken, guilty, alive.
And perhaps loving meant ceasing to disguise that truth.
Teresa opened the email application. She didn’t know how to use it properly. Maria Luisa didn’t help her.
He waited, trembling, respecting for the first time a decision of his mother.
Teresa found the attachment. Her fingers hesitated before sending it.
He thought about the neighbors. About the relatives. About the empty chair. About the 8 million every December.
She thought of Maria Luisa at 21, believing she could save her mother by selling pieces of herself.
Then he pressed send.
There was no music. There was no relief. Just a small sound of confirmation.
Maria Luisa let out a moan and covered her mouth.
Teresa left the phone on the floor.
—Now tell me everything.
The daughter looked at her as if that sentence was more difficult than any complaint.
—Everything?
—Everything. Without taking care of myself. Without embellishing it. Without playing dumb.
Maria Luisa sat on the floor, facing her. She looked like a punished child and an aged woman at the same time.
And he began to speak.
He spoke of the first office in Seoul, of the contract he didn’t fully understand, of the translator who omitted important parts.
He spoke of Kang Jun being kind, patient, almost paternal, until the first transfer arrived in Mexico.
