Then you send it to Marisol.
Ten minutes later, Teresa receives a cease-and-desist letter.
Two hours later, the post disappears.
By evening, Diego calls his mother on speaker in front of his attorney and tells her to stop.
You know because Marisol sends you a summary.
You read it twice.
Not because you care about Teresa.
Because, for the first time, Diego is cleaning up one of the messes he made.
Too late.
But still.
Your baby keeps growing.
That becomes your focus.
Morning sickness fades into cravings, then swollen ankles, then nights where sleep becomes a negotiation with your bladder. You paint the nursery soft green. Marisol helps build the crib and curses at the instructions for two hours.
Your mother comes from San Antonio and fills the freezer with soup, casseroles, and enough tamales to survive a natural disaster.
At twenty weeks, you learn you are having a boy.
You cry in the car afterward.
Not because you are disappointed.
Because for one terrible moment, you hear Diego’s voice saying your son is not his, and you realize the wound is still there.
Your mother reaches over and takes your hand.
“Your son is not Diego,” she says.
You look at her.
She squeezes your fingers.
“Do not let a bad man make you afraid of raising a good one.”
So you name him Mateo.
