—Tenían dinero para Cancún.
—Ese viaje ya estaba pagado.
—Y el ataúd de mi hijo también.
Nadie respondió.
Verónica apretó los dientes.
This is all because I am pregnant. You’re angry that I’m going to have a baby and you don’t have yours anymore.
Rubén levantó la cabeza, horrorizado.
—Veronica…
But she didn’t stop.
“You’re bitter. Matthew died and now you want us all to suffer with you.
Sentí que algo helado me cruzó el pecho. No fue dolor. Fue límite.
—Fuera de mi casa.
—Angélica, ella no quiso decir eso —dijo mi madre.
—Sí lo quiso decir. Y ustedes la están defendiendo. Fuera.
“You’re going to regret it,” Veronica spit. I’m going to tell everyone how cruel you are.
Count what you want. I have catches.
I closed the door while they kept screaming. That night I slept for the first time without waiting for an apology. I didn’t want her anymore.
Two weeks later, Veronica posted a long letter on Facebook. He said that I had thrown a pregnant woman into the street, that I had abandoned my elderly parents, that the mourning had made me bad. Her friends started insulting me. “What a monster,” “the family is not touched,” “poor pregnant.”
Then Mrs. Moreno commented:
“Weren’t you the ones who were in Cancun during Mateo’s funeral?”
The digital silence was short-lived. Neighbors, Joaquin’s companions, church people and school parents began to ask. What about Cancun? What about a child’s funeral? What about Aunt on vacation?
