—And his death is your problem, not mine. I’m pregnant, Angelica. This may be my last chance to rest before the baby.
I felt a door close inside me.
—Don’t say his name again.
—Do not threaten me. If you want to sink, sink alone. I’m not going to ruin my happiness because your son died.
I hung up without saying goodbye. That night I didn’t scream. I didn’t break anything. I just sat in Mateo’s bedroom, surrounded by his trophies, his baseball glove, and his notebooks, and I understood something terrible: I hadn’t lost my family that day. I had seen her for the first time.
Mateo’s funeral was on a Thursday morning. Solana accompanied me. It was also his teacher, Mrs. Moreno, who drove for more than an hour with red eyes and a letter written by her classmates. My son’s coffin was placed next to Joaquín’s. While the priest talked about meeting in heaven, I thought about Cancun. In my mother putting sunscreen on. In my father ordering seafood. In Veronica smiling with her hand about her pregnancy as my child came down to earth.
