The answer is too gentle, and that makes it worse.
You walk to the table and grab the envelope. Mercedes makes a small sound, like she wants to stop you but knows she has no right. Your fingers shake as you turn it over.
The envelope has been opened before.
Many times.
You can see it in the softened fold, the worn edges, the way the paper has been touched by hands that were not yours.
“You read it?” you ask.
Mercedes looks ashamed.
“Yes.”
You laugh, but it comes out empty.
“Of course you did.”
“Alejandro—”
“No. Don’t.” You hold up the envelope. “You watched my son every day. You let me walk in here tired, embarrassed, grateful. You let me think you were lonely and I was helping you.”
“You were helping me,” she whispers.
“But you were hiding this.”
She looks down.
“Yes.”
That one honest word is almost worse than a lie.
Mateo stirs in her arms, making a tiny sound. Instantly, both of you go silent. Mercedes rocks him once, gently, naturally, like she has done it all her life.
Like he belongs there.
That thought terrifies you.
You step forward and take your son from her arms.
