PART 2
My mother saw the photo and went pale.
—Did you know my father before you married him? I asked.
She lowered herself into the plastic chair by the window. Dawn light cut across her face, exposing every wrinkle I had avoided seeing for years.
—Yes, she said at last. —I knew him long before.
She told me that in her youth, she had studied Chemistry at UNAM. That she hadn’t always collected bottles or cardboard. That she once wore a lab coat, worked in research, and dreamed of building a scientific center.
My father, Roberto Álvarez, was also a chemist. He came from wealth and ran Químicos Álvarez. Together, they worked on a wastewater treatment project that could transform industrial plants across Mexico.
—I loved him, she admitted quietly. —But he married your biological mother. I stepped aside.
Later, when my mother died, my father sought her out to help raise me. She agreed without hesitation.
—When your father died, I already had a ticket to Puebla, she said, voice trembling. —But I passed your room and heard you crying. I couldn’t leave you.
Before I could respond, another message arrived.
An old photograph. My mother in a white lab coat inside a research facility. In the corner: UNAM Chemical Research Center. Behind her stood my father—and another man.
Her voice barely came out.
—Héctor Salvatierra.
The name was instantly familiar. Owner of Salvatierra Bioquímica, now a powerful company with international contracts.
—He worked with us, she explained. —There were four of us: your father, Dr. Mauricio, Héctor, and me. But when the project became profitable, everything changed.
She didn’t finish.
Two men arrived at the neighborhood. Sent by Don Tino. They stood at the door, speaking loudly enough for everyone to hear.
—Mrs. Lupita, don’t forget the payment. Otherwise, we might come to your university tomorrow. It would be such a lovely scene: the young doctor receiving his diploma while his mother still owes money.
I stepped forward.
—Threaten her again and I’ll call the police.
One of them laughed.
—Then start by getting one, doctor.
After they left, my mother tried to go silent again—but I was no longer a child.
I opened my computer and searched for Héctor Salvatierra. I found photos, interviews, awards. In an old article, I read that he had been head of research at my father’s company before leaving to found his own.
Then I found something else: his company had expanded rapidly after my father’s death.
My mother asked me to stop searching.
—There are things that hurt, Diego.
—It hurts more that you lie to me.
Then she took a small key from her bag. She unlocked an old drawer that had always stayed shut and pulled out a rusted metal box. Inside were documents, a yellowed letter, and a card.
The card read: “Lic. Julián Medina. Executor and legal advisor of Roberto Álvarez.”
“Your father left a will,” she said.
We went to find the lawyer that same day. Attorney Julián was already an elderly man, with white hair and trembling hands. When he saw my mother, he froze.
—Guadalupe… why did it take you so many years?
My mother began to cry.
In his office, the lawyer opened an old file.
“Your father came three days before he died,” he told me. “He was afraid. He said someone was trying to force him to hand over research documents that didn’t belong to them.”
He pulled out a copy of the will. In it, my father entrusted Guadalupe with custody of the documents, part of his assets, and the responsibility of protecting me.
I was frozen.
My mother could have sold everything. She could have lived comfortably. She could have stopped collecting trash. And she didn’t.
“Why?” I asked him.
She cried silently.
—Because if I accepted anything, everyone would say I stayed with you for money.
Before he could hug her, the lawyer’s phone rang. His expression changed.
—The man who kept the original documents has just had an accident.
We looked at each other without speaking.
We went to the hospital. When we arrived in the emergency hallway, Héctor Salvatierra was there, wearing a suit, as if he had been expecting us.
He smiled.
—Diego, you’ve grown so much.
My mother squeezed my hand.
—What do you want, Hector?
He pulled out a yellow envelope.
—Let your son know the whole truth.
He held it up in front of me.
—Here is a DNA test.
I felt the ground vanish beneath me.
My mother turned pale. The bag with the documents fell to the floor.
And just as Hector was about to open the envelope, a man in a white coat appeared at the end of the hallway. Elderly, hunched, wearing thick glasses.
My mother could barely speak:
—Doctor Salazar…
The man who had signed my father’s death certificate was standing in front of us.
And I understood that the truth had not yet finished unfolding.
