We stood together awkwardly among parents taking photos, proud mothers adjusting collars, fathers asking too many questions about job prospects. Diego introduced Tomás as his dad.
Then he paused before introducing me.
I prepared myself.
This was still new ground.
He said, “And this is Mariana. She’s my stepmom.”
Stepmom.
Not my dad’s wife.
Not Mariana.
Not the woman who ruined everything.
Stepmom.
My chest tightened.
A small word can carry years.
Later, while Tomás spoke with one of Diego’s professors, Diego walked beside me across campus.
“My friends used to think you were strict,” he said.
“I am.”
He nodded.
“But I told them you’re the reason I’m still here.”
I kept my face steady.
“That must have been hard to say.”
“It was embarrassing.”
“And?”
“And true.”
He kicked a pebble along the sidewalk.
“I’m still mad sometimes.”
“At me?”
“At everyone. Mom for dying. Dad for lying. You for being there. Me for being awful. It depends on the day.”
“That sounds honest.”
He nodded.
“My therapist says I should stop using anger as a blanket.”
I looked at him.
“You’re seeing a therapist?”
“Dad found someone. I thought it was stupid.”
“And?”
“It is stupid. But useful.”
I laughed.
He did too.
That was the first time we laughed together without guarding ourselves.
Then came the letter.
It arrived on a Thursday afternoon in a plain envelope addressed to Diego.
He opened it at dinner.
His face changed as he read.
Tomás noticed first.
“What is it?”
Diego looked at him.
Then at me.
“It’s from my mom’s sister.”
Tomás went still.
I knew very little about his late wife’s family. Tomás rarely spoke of them. He said they had drifted away after the funeral. Diego had grown up with framed photos but few living connections to that side of his blood.
Diego continued, “She says she wants to meet me. She says she’s been trying to contact Dad for years.”
I looked at Tomás.
His face had gone pale.
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