The handwriting hits you first.
Your mother’s handwriting.
Sharp, slanted, impatient, alive.
You stop breathing.
My Alejandro,
If this letter ever reaches you, I need you to know I did not keep the truth from you because I was ashamed of your father. I kept it because pain made me proud, and pride made me quiet.
Your eyes blur immediately.
You blink hard and keep reading.
Gabriel Rivera loved you before he knew your name. He died before I could tell him I was pregnant. His mother, Mercedes, and his sister, Elena, may not know you exist. I was angry for many years because I thought they rejected me. Later, I learned they had been lied to too.
You look up.
Mercedes is crying silently now.
You read on.
If you ever find them, do not let my bitterness be the only inheritance I leave you. Ask questions. Demand truth. But do not believe you were unwanted. You were loved before you were born.
The letter slips slightly in your hand.
You cannot finish it.
Not yet.
You look at Mercedes.
“What lie?”
Her face changes.
The shame there is old.
