For the first time, Teresa looked at her son as if he were an enemy.
—If a man doubts his own wife so easily, maybe he doesn’t deserve a family.
Rodrigo staggered as if struck.
Then Isabel, his younger sister, stood up at the back of the hall. She had always been quiet, elegant, obedient. But that night she was crying.
—She did it to me too.
Teresa turned slowly.
—Sit down, Isabel.
—No.
Rodrigo frowned.
—What are you talking about?
Isabel pulled out an old photograph.
A boy around nine years old smiled in a school uniform.
—His name is Mateo—she said—. He is my son.
The entire hall seemed to inhale and exhale at once.
Rodrigo could barely speak.
—Your son?
Isabel nodded, crying.
—I got pregnant at 21. Mom said it was a shame. She sent me to Puebla, forced me to sign papers, and told everyone I lost the baby.
Teresa pressed her lips together.
—I saved your life.
—You stole my child.
Daniela felt a chill. What Teresa had tried to do to Lucía was not new. It was a pattern.
Mariana opened another folder.
