My hands were trembling in the lab. The woman asked me about our relationship. I didn't know what to say. I said, "Just curious."
Three weeks without sleep, waiting for an envelope.
When it arrived, I opened it standing in the kitchen. I read one line. Probability of motherhood: 99.99%.
I sat down on the floor. There, on the kitchen floor, with the paper in my hand.
My son did not die.
My son sat three chairs away from me at every dinner for twelve years. And he would call me "auntie".
The next day I went early. Diego was there.
He opened the door for me. Twelve years old, skinny, disheveled, wearing his usual Club América jersey.
—Aunt Sofi? What are you doing so early?
I couldn't get a word out. The only thing I could think of was something silly.
—Have you had breakfast yet?
He shook his head.
I went inside. I made him eggs and beans, just the way he likes them. He climbed onto the bench, tapping his phone, telling me about a video game. Just like the hundred times I made him breakfast without him knowing it was mine.
I watched him cut the egg with the fork and couldn't stand what was inside.
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