Camila came out of her room, rubbing her eyes, wearing the unicorn pajamas that were already getting too short for her.
—Who came, Dad?
—Your uncle Oscar, honey. He came by quickly before going to the bank.
—Ah… —she yawned—. Is breakfast ready yet?
Joaquín looked at her. He saw Marisol’s eyes. The same way she raised her left eyebrow when she was hungry. He felt a surge of rage so intense he had to clench his fists on the kitchen counter to keep from screaming. Someone was taking advantage of this. Someone was using the memory of this sacred woman, the mother of his daughter, to extract money he barely had.
—Yes, my love. Sit down. The quesadillas will be ready in a moment.
As he cooked, his mind worked faster than his hands. He remembered the last few times he’d tried to see Leticia. “Don’t come, son, I’m really sick with the flu, I don’t want to give it to the baby.” “I can’t today, I’m just leaving for the doctor.” Always excuses. Always by text or brief calls where her voice sounded distant, tired.
Was it really her?
She pulled out her phone. The message from the night before was still there, blinking like a silent threat.
*“I need to talk to you about the payment method. Call me today.”*
Joaquín took a deep breath. If he wanted answers, he had to go into the lion’s den, but carefully. He dialed the number.
