—They lived. Free. By my generosity and that of Joaquín. That favor ended.
Rubén tried to sound calm.
—Angelica, we understand that you are hurt, but you can’t kick us out like that. There are laws.
—Perfect. Talk to a lawyer. The apartment is in my name. You don’t have a contract, you don’t pay rent and you went on vacation while I buried my son.
My mother put her hand to her chest.
—Don’t use that to punish us. We are your family.
For the first time in months I laughed, but there was no joy in my laughter.
—Family? My family was in the cemetery. Joaquín underground. Mateo at his side. Solana holding me so I wouldn’t fall. My son’s teacher crying for him. You were toasting in front of the sea.
My dad spoke softly.
—Daughter, we made a mistake, but you don’t have to destroy us.
—I’m not destroying them. I just stopped maintaining them.
Then my mother showed the real reason for her visit.
—You can’t take away our financial aid. We depend on that.
—They had money for Cancun.
—That trip was already paid for.
—And my son’s coffin too.
Nobody responded.
Veronica gritted her teeth.
—This is all because I’m pregnant. It makes you angry that I’m going to have a baby and you no longer have yours.
Rubén raised his head, horrified.
—Veronica…
But she didn’t stop.
—You are bitter. Mateo died and now you want us all to suffer with you.
I felt something cold cross my chest. It wasn’t pain. It was limit.
—Outside my house.
—Angelica, she didn’t mean that —my mother said.
—Yes he meant it. And you are defending it. Out.
—You’re going to regret it —Veronica spat—. I’m going to tell everyone how cruel you are.
—Tell what you want. I have captures.
I closed the door while they continued screaming. That night I slept for the first time without expecting an apology. I didn’t love her anymore.
Two weeks later, Verónica published a very long letter on Facebook. He said that I had thrown a pregnant woman out onto the street, that I had abandoned my elderly parents, that grief had made me sick. Her friends started insulting me. “What a monster”, “the family is not touched”, “poor pregnant woman”.
Then Mrs. Moreno commented:
—Weren’t you the ones who were in Cancun during Mateo’s funeral?
The digital silence was short-lived. Neighbors, Joaquín’s classmates, people from the church and parents from the school began to ask. What about Cancun? What about a child’s funeral? How come the aunt was on vacation?
I wrote only one comment.
“Veronica, you’re right about one thing: our family broke up. It broke when you, Rubén, mom and dad decided that a vacation was worth more than saying goodbye to Mateo, my 12-year-old son. It broke when you told me his death was my problem, not yours. I hope the sea has been beautiful enough to pay that price.”
I didn’t write more.
No need.
The post exploded. He deleted it hours later, but it was too late. The captures were everywhere. My mother sent me an email saying that I had humiliated the family. I didn’t answer. My father left a message crying. I didn’t answer. Rubén wrote that Verónica was very affected by stress. I didn’t answer. For years I responded too much.
