PART 2
I didn’t sit down. I couldn’t.
Celia did. She sank onto the edge of the bed as if the weight of the years had suddenly caught up with her.
—Twenty years ago —he finally said— I had a son.
First came confusion. Then anger. Then a fear so tight it gripped my chest.
—And what does that have to do with me?
She met my eyes.
—All.
She told me that at forty, she had been married to Octavio Beltrán, an agribusiness tycoon with money, influence, and a spotless image on the outside—but rotten within. He owned land, contracts, political favors, and armed men. A golden cage—that’s how she described that marriage.
When she tried to leave, he refused.
When she became pregnant, she realized the child wouldn’t be a son to Octavio, but an heir he could control like another possession.
“I knew that if I tried to run away with you in my arms, he would find us,” she said, tears now falling. “And if he found you, he would make you his.”
The words struck me before I could stop them.
With you.
My ears rang.
—No.
—Yes, Efraín.
—No.
—You are that son.
Something inside me shattered.
I laughed—but not from humor, from horror.
—You’re sick.
“I didn’t recognize you at first,” she rushed out, as if trying to get ahead of my reaction. “When I met you at the house, I only saw a kind, intelligent, good young man… and I got close. Then I started noticing dates, stories, gestures. I had someone look into it. Eight months ago, I learned the truth.”
I looked at her like someone who had just burned my life to the ground.
—Eight months ago? And you still married me?
Celia lowered her head.
—I tried to push you away.
—Not enough!
“No,” she admitted, shattered. “Not enough.”
I hated how honest she was, because it took away the comfort of simply calling her a monster.
—And the bodyguards?
—They’re because of Octavio. He’s still alive. And if he finds out who you are, he can use you.
The words cut deep.
Not only had she let me fall in love, she had also—without a word—placed me in the middle of a war that had been waiting for twenty years.
“And my mother?” I asked, my throat tight. “The woman who raised me?”
Celia took a deep breath.
—She knew.
That answer ripped the ground from beneath me.
—No.
—Yes. Her name is Rosaura. I entrusted your life to her one early morning. She was the only decent person near me at the time. She raised you to protect you.
I couldn’t take it anymore.
I grabbed my jacket, left the keys, the envelope—everything. I walked out of that room as if the walls were closing in. I walked for hours until I ended up at a roadside gas station, still in my suit, watching trucks pass and wondering how many times a man can break in a single night.
I got home at dawn.
My mother was in the yard, feeding the chickens. When she saw me—tie loose, face worn, eyes burning—she dropped the tin can from her hands.
—Efraín…
“Tell me the truth,” I said.
My father stepped out of the kitchen, and the moment he saw us, he understood everything without a word.
My mother turned pale. She pressed a hand to her chest. And in a voice I barely recognized, she said:
—If Celia has already spoken… then get ready, because you still don’t know the worst of it.
