“That’s me,” you whisper.
“Yes.”
You look at him sharply. “Then why did they have me? Why was I there?”
Don Ramón’s jaw tightens. He is a hard-faced man, weathered by sun and mountain wind and whatever private grief turned his name into something people spoke with respect and caution. But there is no cruelty in him, not even now, when you would almost prefer it. Cruelty would be easier to understand than patience.
“Because Elena died when you were a baby,” he says. “And because the people who got hold of you cared less about your life than about what came attached to it.”
Your stomach turns.
You think of Ernesto counting the money without one flicker of shame. Clara whispering Good riddance like she was finally spitting out something bitter she had held in too long. The city people who watched and never intervened. The years of hunger, of insults, of being told you were worthless, ugly, expensive, ungrateful, lucky to be fed at all.
Not unlucky.
Useful.
“What came attached to me?” you ask.
Don Ramón slides the folded document closer.
