When she became pregnant, she understood that the child would not be a son for Octavio, but an heir that he could control like just another piece of property.
“I knew that if I tried to run away with you in my arms, he would find us,” she said, now crying. “And if he found you, he would make you his.”
The word hit me before I could stop it.
With you.
I felt my ears ringing.
-No.
—Yes, Efraín.
-No.
—You are that son.
Everything inside me shattered.
I laughed, but not with laughter: with horror.
—You’re sick.
“I didn’t recognize you at first,” she blurted out, as if trying to catch me off guard before I exploded. “When I met you at the house, I just saw a good, intelligent, noble young man… and I approached him. Then I started noticing dates, stories, gestures. I had someone investigate. Eight months ago, I learned the truth.”
I looked at her the way you look at someone who has just set your life on fire.
—Eight months ago? And you still married me?
Celia lowered her head.
—I tried to push you away.
—Not enough!
