That afternoon I called my mom, shaking, and told her I needed help burying my son.
On the other side there was silence. Then his response left me colder than death.
—We can’t, Angelica. Tomorrow we fly to Cancun with Verónica and Rubén. The trip has already been paid for.
—Mom, Mateo was your grandson —I said, pressing the phone as if I could break it with my hand—. Just died.
—And I’m so sorry —she responded, in a dry voice—, but we spent $8,000 on that vacation. We can’t lose that money.
—Are you choosing the beach over my son’s funeral?
—You are exaggerating. You can handle this. You always can.
I hang. Before I could breathe, Veronica called.
—Mom told me you’re doing drama —he said, without saying hello—. Look, I’m sorry about Mateo, but we’re not canceling anything.
—It was your nephew.
