Ho fatto tutto allo this mode.
Inside it was not più la stessa.
Il giorno dopo ho iniziato.
First I checked the papers.
Invoices.
Accounts.
Scriptures.
Receipts.
Contracts.
Everything he thought that I didn’t understand because “I was only good for taking care of him.”
I found things.
Many.
A life insurance policy.
A hidden account.
A will where my name didn’t appear, not even by mistake.
And a folder with the name Tomás on it.
Inside there were storage facilities.
Monthly.
Big.
While I was counting pesos to buy gas, Esteban was sending money to his son so he could buy motorcycles, sneakers, and trips to Cancun.
I laughed.
A dry laugh.
Not from pain.
Disgusting.
That night, while I was feeding him dinner, Esteban asked me:
—Why are you so quiet?
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