That afternoon I called my mom, shaking, and told her I needed help burying my son.
On the other side there was silence. Then his response left me colder than death.
—We can’t, Angelica. Tomorrow we fly to Cancun with Verónica and Rubén. The trip has already been paid for.
—Mom, Mateo was your grandson —I said, pressing the phone as if I could break it with my hand—. Just died.
—And I’m so sorry —she responded, in a dry voice—, but we spent $8,000 on that vacation. We can’t lose that money.
—Are you choosing the beach over my son’s funeral?
—You are exaggerating. You can handle this. You always can.
I hang. Before I could breathe, Veronica called.
—Mom told me you’re doing drama —he said, without saying hello—. Look, I’m sorry about Mateo, but we’re not canceling anything.
—It was your nephew.
—And his death is your problem, not mine. I’m pregnant, Angelica. This may be my last chance to rest before the baby.
I felt a door close inside me.
—Don’t say his name again.
—Do not threaten me. If you want to sink, sink alone. I’m not going to ruin my happiness because your son died.
I hung up without saying goodbye. That night I didn’t scream. I didn’t break anything. I just sat in Mateo’s bedroom, surrounded by his trophies, his baseball glove, and his notebooks, and I understood something terrible: I hadn’t lost my family that day. I had seen her for the first time.
Mateo’s funeral was on a Thursday morning. Solana accompanied me. It was also his teacher, Mrs. Moreno, who drove for more than an hour with red eyes and a letter written by her classmates. My son’s coffin was placed next to Joaquín’s. While the priest talked about meeting in heaven, I thought about Cancun. In my mother putting sunscreen on. In my father ordering seafood. In Veronica smiling with her hand about her pregnancy as my child came down to earth.
After the funeral, Solana wanted to stay with me.
—You shouldn’t be alone.
—I’m not alone —I told him—. I’m awake.
I went straight to the apartment that Joaquín had left me. Verónica and Rubén had lived there for free for years. I opened it with my key and started packing. Clothes, shoes, dishes, photos, cheap decorations, documents, everything. I didn’t break anything. I did not scream. I was orderly, exact, cold. I hired a move and paid extra to have everything taken to my parents’ house. I used the emergency key that they themselves had given me and asked them to leave the boxes in the middle of the room, one on top of the other, like the altar of their impudence.
Then I called a locksmith.
—Do you want to change just the sheet metal?
—Everything —I said—. I want no old keys to come back into use.
When I finished, I went home, opened my computer and canceled every payment I made for them: my parents’ car insurance, medical supplement, supermarket card, Verónica’s cell phone, monthly payment for Rubén’s car, gym, services, small aids which totaled almost $3,000 a month. As I pressed “cancel”, I remembered every time I gave them money believing it was love.
That afternoon the photos appeared. Veronica on the beach. Ruben with dark glasses. My parents raising glasses. “My family always supports me”, she wrote.
I took screenshot of everything.
Three days later they returned. I didn’t answer calls. I didn’t listen to audios. At 10 at night, they knocked on my door as if they were coming to claim stolen property.
—Open, Angelica! —Veronica shouted—. What the hell did you do with our apartment?
I took a deep breath. I looked at a photo of Mateo in his baseball uniform. Then I opened the door.
Part 2…
The four of them were on my porch: my mother with the face of a victim, my father confused, Rubén avoiding my eyes and Verónica red with fury, with one hand on her belly as if her pregnancy were a credential to trample anyone.
—We need to talk —my mother said, entering without permission.
—No —I answered—. They need to listen.
Veronica let out a bitter laugh.w
—Did you go crazy? Our things are lying around at my parents’ house. We can’t enter the apartment.
—It’s not your department anymore.
—We live there.
