Marta stopped her at the door.
“Only Mr. Salvatierra.”
Rebeca lifted her chin. “I am their grandmother.”
Isabel, sitting inside with the babies in bassinets, heard the word and felt something cold move through her.
She stood and walked to the doorway.
“You are the woman who called their mother incomplete,” she said. “That is not the same thing.”
Doña Rebeca’s face hardened.
“I did not know you were pregnant.”
“No. You thought cruelty was safe because there were no witnesses inside me.”
Rodrigo flinched.
Rebeca looked at him. “Are you going to let her speak to me like that?”
For the first time, Isabel saw him hesitate between the old pattern and the truth standing in front of him.
Then he failed again.
“Isabel,” he said softly. “Maybe we can keep this calm.”
She almost smiled.
Calm.
Men like Rodrigo always discovered calm when women finally had evidence.
Marta stepped in. “Mrs. Salvatierra, you may wait downstairs or leave.”
Doña Rebeca left, but not before placing the blankets on a chair as if luxury could disinfect memory.
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