You stand in Mrs. Mercedes’s doorway, unable to move.
Your son is asleep in her arms, one tiny fist curled against her gray shawl. On the coffee table sits an old photograph of a young man who looks so much like you that for one terrifying second, you think you are staring at your own ghost.
And beside it is a yellowed envelope.
Your full name is written across the front.
Alejandro Torres.
Mrs. Mercedes turns pale when she sees you standing there.
The phone slips from her hand and lands softly on the faded rug. She does not scream. She does not run. She only pulls Mateo a little closer to her chest, as if your anger is a storm and the baby is the one thing she must keep dry.
“Who were you talking to?” you ask.
Your voice does not sound like yours.
It sounds colder.
Older.
Broken in a way you do not recognize.
Mrs. Mercedes opens her mouth, but nothing comes out.
You step inside slowly, still holding the diaper bag.
“I asked you a question.”
She looks down at Mateo, then back at you.
“Alejandro, please don’t wake him.”
That makes something inside you snap.
“Don’t tell me what to do with my son.”
