The young man on the phone let out a brief laugh.
—Ma’am, this is not a Mexican novel.
Teresa looked at him with a calmness she didn’t even know she possessed.
—No. It’s worse. Because it’s real.
Maria Luisa lowered her head. For the first time since she arrived, she seemed more like a daughter than an adult.
The man in the suit placed the folder on the table.
—Her daughter agreed to work for Mr. Kang 12 years ago. It wasn’t marriage. It was a front.
Teresa felt the floor move.
—Facade of what?
Maria Luisa spoke before he did.
—Business. Accounts. Companies that weren’t in my name, but used my signature.
His voice was low and dry, as if he had repeated that confession in his mind thousands of times.
Kang needed a foreigner with no connections here, someone easy to control, someone who seemed grateful.
Teresa put a hand to her mouth.
—And did you accept?
The question came out with more pain than accusation.
Maria Luisa finally looked at her.
—I accepted because you said you owed 300,000 pesos for Dad’s operation.
Teresa remained motionless.
That debt was old, shameful, and burdensome. She never wanted her daughter to carry that burden.
—I told you I would solve it.
—You weren’t solving it, Mom. You were selling food, cleaning houses, borrowing money. You were burning yourself out.
Teresa felt tears, but they didn’t fall.
The man in the suit interrupted.
—Very emotional. But irrelevant.
He took out another sheet of paper and pushed it towards Maria Luisa.
—Sign the transfer. You hand over the accounts, legally disappear from the group, and nobody bothers your mother.
Teresa looked at the sheet of paper. She didn’t understand the language, but she recognized the poison in that proposal.
—And what if he doesn’t sign?
