Or rather, it should have contained more. The corner of the envelope is marked in pencil with careful totals and dates, and Miguel instantly recognizes his own handwriting style echoed in childish imitation. Emilio has been keeping records. Allowance received. Birthday money. Money saved from not buying snacks at school. Even twenty dollars missing from a cash tray in Miguel’s office one Friday, noted with shaky guilt and an asterisk beside it.
For Sofia’s medicine, the note at the bottom reads.
Sofia.
At last, the girl has a name.
Miguel sits on the edge of his son’s bed and feels the room tilt around him. Medicine. Not toys. Not candy. Not some silly tween romance. Medicine. He looks at Emilio sleeping and realizes the indignation burning inside him has changed direction entirely. It is no longer aimed at his son for lying. It is aimed at a situation that forced a child to become secretive, resourceful, and burdened.
The next morning, he decides to confront him.
But plans, like glass, break easily.
Miguel calls Emilio into his study after breakfast. The room is lined with law books no one opens and art no one comments on, all dark wood and controlled taste, designed to intimidate other men and reassure investors. Emilio stands near the door in his uniform, backpack over one shoulder, trying to look calm and failing in the small ways children always fail. His fingers worry the strap. His eyes flick once toward the window.
“Sit down,” Miguel says.
Emilio doesn’t.
