—Diego. Do you know that I used to carry you around a lot when you were a baby?
—My grandmother tells me. That you wouldn't let anyone else hold me. —She laughed with her mouth full—. That you used to sing me to sleep.
I had to turn around and wash a plate that was already clean.
—Auntie. Why are you crying?
I wasn't going to lie to him too.
—Because I love you very much, Diego. More than you can imagine.
He shrugged, like a child does, and continued eating.
I stayed there, watching him eat the breakfast I had made for him, twelve years late.
I couldn't call him "son." Not that morning. But deep down, I already knew no other way to call him.
That week I mustered up the courage and showed the paper to my parents.
My mom read it and dropped it on the table as if it were burning hot.
—Sofia. You're hurting. That makes you see things.
—Mom, it says ninety-nine percent.
"Those papers are wrong. Are you going to ruin Diego's life because of a fight with your sister?"
My own mother. She thought that after the party, I was making things up to ruin Jimena.
The only one who believed me was my dad. He stared at the paper for a long time.
"The chin," he said softly. "I always said that boy had my chin."
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