He opened the door for me. He was twelve years old, skinny, with his hair disheveled, and wearing his usual Club America jersey.
—Aunt Sofi? What are you doing so early?
I couldn't utter a word. The only thing I could think of was nonsense.
—Have you had breakfast yet?
He shook his head.
I came home. I made him eggs and beans, just the way he likes them. He sat on the bench, staring at his phone and talking to me about a video game. Just like the hundreds of times I'd made him breakfast without him noticing.
I watched him cut the egg with his fork and couldn't stand what was inside.
—Diego. Do you know I often carried you when you were little?
—My grandmother tells me you never let anyone else carry me. —He laughs, his mouth full. — That you rocked me while you sang.
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 either.
—Because I love you so much, Diego. More than you can imagine.
He shrugged, like a child, and continued eating.
I stood there, watching him eat the breakfast I'd made him, twelve years late.
I couldn't call him "my son." Not that morning. But deep down, I didn't know what else to call him.
That week, I summoned the courage and showed the document to my parents.
My mother read it and dropped it on the table as if it were red-hot.
—Sofia. You're suffering. This makes you see things differently.
—Mom, it says ninety-nine percent.
"These documents are fake. Do you want to ruin Diego's life over an argument with your sister?"
My mother. She thought I was making up stories to hurt Jimena after the party.
The only one who believed me was my father. He stared at the newspaper for a long time.
"The chin," she said softly. "I always said that boy had my chin."
She grabbed both my hands. For the first time in this whole story, someone believed me.
But that document wasn't enough to convince a judge. For it to be legally valid, I had to sue my sister. And risk Diego hating me for taking away the only mother he'd ever known.
Before filing a complaint, I went to see her. I wanted to hear her version of events directly.
She was packing, six months pregnant. She knew I knew. She didn't yell at me. She didn't cry. She looked at me with a calmness that scared me more than any scream.
"If you sue me," she said, "I'll tell Diego that his aunt wants to kick him out of the house. Do you know who she'll hate? You."
And before I left, she left me speechless with a single sentence:
— Besides, you don't know everything that happened that night. Ask my mother:
Part 3.
That afternoon I went to my mother's house. I placed the lab report in front of her.
—Mom. What happened that night? The truth.
She was silent for a long time. Then she sat down, as if her legs could no longer support her.
Jimena couldn't have children. I knew that. What I didn't know was that, a few weeks before giving birth, she had lost a baby. Near the end of her pregnancy. They hadn't told me so as not to worry me; she was alone, widowed, and pregnant. Jimena was devastated. She stopped eating. She stopped speaking.
"The night you got sick," my mother told me, "I arrived late at the clinic. When I arrived, Jimena already had your baby in her arms. And she told me he was hers. That God had given him back to her."
She pursed her lips.
