“You don’t have to want me,” she says. “But you deserve him.”
You stare at the young man’s face.
Gabriel Rivera.
Your father.
Dead before he knew you existed.
Loved you before he knew your name.
You take the envelope.
You do not take the photograph.
Not yet.
When you leave, Mercedes does not follow.
She simply sits in her chair with both hands empty, looking suddenly older than she ever has.
Back in your apartment, Mateo cries for almost an hour.
He has been fed. Changed. Rocked. Burped. Held. Nothing works.
You know what he wants.
He wants the old woman next door who sings to him in a soft voice and taps his back in a rhythm your exhausted arms never learned.
That makes you angry all over again.
At her.
At yourself.
At Mateo’s mother for leaving.
At your own mother for dying before she could explain. At Gabriel for dying before he could choose you. At Julián, a dead man you never met, for locking your life inside his pride.
Finally, Mateo falls asleep on your chest.
You sit in the dark and finish your mother’s letter.
She writes about Gabriel’s laugh.
About how he used to leave quarters in vending machines for strangers.
