She is holding a baby.
You sit back hard in the chair.
“No,” you say again, but it is weaker now. “No.”
“That’s your mother,” Don Ramón says quietly. “Her name was Elena Márquez.”
Your fingers hover above the photograph and then pull back before touching it, as if contact might make the truth permanent. You have spent your whole life learning not to reach for things that might be taken away. Bread. Books. Mercy. Hope. Now the face of a dead woman with your eyes sits within reach, and your body does not know whether to tremble or fight.
“What are you talking about?” you ask.
Don Ramón folds his hands once on the table. “I’m talking about a woman who should have raised you herself. I’m talking about a man who should have protected her. And I’m talking about the people who lied to you because they wanted what was left behind.”
