Part 2…
The four of them were on my porch: my mother with a victim face, my father confused, Ruben avoiding my eyes and red Veronica of fury, with a hand in the belly as if her pregnancy were a credential to trample on anyone.
“We need to talk,” said my mother, entering without permission.
—No —respondí—. Necesitan escuchar.
Verónica soltó una risa amarga.
—¿Te volviste loca? Nuestras cosas están tiradas en casa de mis papás. No podemos entrar al departamento.
It’s not your apartment anymore.
We live there.
—Vivían. Gratis. Por generosidad mía y de Joaquín. Ese favor terminó.
Rubén intentó sonar tranquilo.
