Her eyes fill with tears.
You hate that the tears affect you.
You hate that part of you still sees the woman who warmed bottles, sang old Spanish lullabies, and kissed Mateo’s tiny feet like he was a miracle placed in her lap. You hate that your first instinct is still to trust her, even while the words you overheard burn in your skull.
Today he didn’t suspect anything.
You point at the envelope.
“What is that?”
She closes her eyes.
“A letter.”
“To me?”
“Yes.”
“From who?”
Her lips tremble.
“Your mother.”
The room tilts.
Your mother has been dead for eleven years.
You take one step back without meaning to. The old apartment hallway behind you feels too far away, like you have walked into another life and the door has vanished.
“My mother never knew you,” you say.
Mercedes holds Mateo carefully with one arm and reaches for the envelope with her shaking hand.
“She knew my son.”
You look at the photograph again.
The young man in it has dark hair, a crooked half-smile, and a small scar above his left eyebrow. He is leaning against a yellow taxi in what looks like Queens sometime in the late 1980s. His sleeves are rolled up, and he is laughing at whoever took the picture.
You feel sick.
Because you have seen that smile before.
In your bathroom mirror.
