What irony.
The hotel chain of Camila Chávez, that of which she boasts so much, did not begin with her brilliant ideas. It started with my money.
Two hundred thousand pesos.
My dowry.
The only endorsement my mother left me before I died.
I remember that day perfectly.
Camila crying, saying that she wanted to undertake, that she had a project, that she only needed a push. My mother-in-law holding my hand with that sweet voice that I only used when I needed something.
“Lucía, we are family… you are the older sister here, you have to support her. When he’s doing well, he’s gonna give it all back.
Diego, by my side, nodding.
Think of it as an investment. It’s gonna grow fast.
I believed.
I delivered the money without a contract, without guarantees, with nothing but words.
Five years later, there are three hotels running.
And my two hundred thousand pesos… disappeared like they never existed.
Every time I asked, Camila smiled.
“Oh, sister-in-law, money is spinning, give me time.
And my mother-in-law was immediately involved.
“Between family they don’t take account.
Family.
That word.
For years I heard her so much that she stopped having meaning.
Or maybe I did.
It meant I had to get up before everyone to cook.
That I had to give up my room when Camila came to visit.
That he should endure his humiliation when he had a bad day.
And Diego…
