“Mariela needs help,” he told the officers. “She’s been paranoid since my mother came to stay. She thinks everyone is against her.”
My mouth opened.
No sound came out.
Because it was perfect.
Too perfect.
They had already built the story.
The unstable mother.
The anxious child.
The wise grandmother.
The worried husband.
I suddenly remembered every small comment Diane had made in front of neighbors.
“Mariela barely sleeps.”
“Mariela gets overwhelmed.”
“Mariela is so sensitive.”
“Andrés does everything he can, poor thing.”
At the time, I thought she was insulting me.
Now I understood.
She was documenting me.
Not on paper.
In people’s minds.
