PART 2
My hands trembled as I opened Rosa’s notebook.
Her handwriting looked neat and delicate at first, exactly as I remembered it. Grocery lists. Medical appointments. Reminders about school. Notes about bills and medications.
Then the writing shifted.
The letters grew tighter. Messier. Anxious.
Like someone writing in fear of being discovered.
“Arturo says the girls ruined his life.”
“Today he hid my car keys so I couldn’t go to the doctor.”
“They changed my work schedule again. Human Resources said it came from management.”
“Arturo works in Human Resources.”
A chill moved through me.
Rosa and Arturo worked at the same company. She handled administration. He worked in Human Resources, giving him authority over schedules, leave applications, and internal documentation.
I had always believed he looked after her.
She had often told me she felt exhausted. That her chest ached. That sleep had stopped coming.
I had begged her to stay with me for a while, but she always replied:
“I don’t want my daughters growing up without their father.”
I continued reading.
“They denied my medical leave again.”
“Arturo said if I died, he’d finally feel free.”
“Mariela doesn’t want girls around. Arturo said he would solve that problem.”
I slowly raised my eyes.
“Who is Mariela?”
Renata answered quietly.
“The woman from the white van.”
Abril began to cry.
“Dad called her ‘my love’ even when Mom was right there.”
Lucía connected the USB drive to my computer.
The folder held screenshots, emails, audio recordings, and photographs of documents.
In one recording, Arturo’s voice came through the speakers, flat and cold:
“Stop acting dramatic, Rosa. If you’re so miserable, then maybe stop making everyone else miserable too.”
Another recording caught a woman laughing.
“But without the girls, Arturo. I’m not becoming somebody’s stepmother.”
Arturo replied without any hesitation:
“Relax. First I’ll get rid of Rosa. Then I’ll figure out where to dump the little brats.”
Renata covered her ears.
I had to go outside before I lost control of myself entirely.
The early morning smelled of damp earth and fresh tortillas drifting from a neighboring house already preparing breakfast.
I thought about my daughter carrying all of that alone.
Her tired eyes.
Her trembling hands.
Her last phone call to me.
“Dad… I’m so tired. But I don’t want you to worry.”
The following morning, I brought everything to a lawyer recommended by an old friend.
Her name was Beatriz Salgado.
She went through every document carefully without interrupting. When she finally closed the notebook, her expression had shifted entirely.
“Don Julián,” she said gently, “this changes everything. Custody. Criminal charges. Workplace misconduct. But first, we protect the girls.”
“And Arturo?”
“He must not realize how much evidence we have.”
For weeks, we remained quiet.
Social services became involved — but not in the way Arturo had anticipated.
My granddaughters remained in my care.
The company launched an internal investigation.
The prosecutor’s office accepted the complaint.
And slowly, the truth began moving forward.
Meanwhile, Arturo kept performing contentment for anyone watching.
He posted romantic dinners online with Mariela. Shared messages of false grief to draw sympathy. Two months later, he announced their wedding at an elegant hacienda in Cholula.
“After every storm, God gives us another chance,” he wrote.
Lucía stared at the post without a word.
Then she walked to the wooden cabinet, picked up her mother’s purple notebook, and said:
“Then let’s show God the real story.”
And that was the moment I understood that Arturo’s wedding would not pass without consequence.
Because none of us had imagined what my granddaughter was about to reveal in front of the altar.
