I stopped seeing Fernando the day of the divorce. I found out later that Jimena also used him: she made him believe, with fabricated messages, that I approved of their relationship. That doesn't make him innocent—he slept with my sister knowing she was my sister. But now everyone has to deal with their own problems.
It was harder for my mom. It's still hard for me. Some forgiveness never comes in full. It comes in pieces, little by little.
Diego came to live with me. At first, he hardly spoke. He would close his bedroom door. He would call me "Sofia." That was all.
I didn't rush him. How could I rush him? I had twelve years to love him. He had twelve years to believe a different story.
Last Sunday I made him eggs with beans. Just the way he likes them.
I took the little blue hat out of the Bimbo bag and put it next to his plate, without saying anything.
He grabbed it. It fit in the palm of his hand.
—Was this mine?
—I knitted it for you. Before you were born. Before anyone told me you had died.
He remained silent for a long time. Then he put it in his pants pocket. He didn't say "ma." Not yet.
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