Non-medical.
Human.
Because Ofelia quickly confused the “thank you” with “right”. She started sending messages at odd hours, asking if Ximena was already taking vitamins, if she could see her, if Mateo wanted to meet “her little sister”. The first time I let it go. The second I answered clearly. I blocked the third one.
Rodrigo, on the other hand, changed in a way that was difficult for me to interpret. It didn’t suddenly become good. Life doesn’t work like that. But the fear of losing his son and the shame of needing the daughter he abandoned left him without enough ego to act like before. He came to appointments quietly, paid what he had to do without arguing and avoided any gesture that seemed to demand closeness. Ximena treated him with a distant courtesy that was a thousand times crueler than insult.
One afternoon, after a consultation, Mateo wanted to meet her.
I was not sure.
Ximena said yes.
He entered the hospital room with a serenity that I don’t know where he got it from. Mateo was eight years old, pale, thin, with his head just beginning to lose hair from the treatments. When he saw her, he smiled with a luminous shyness.
—Are you Ximena?
She nodded.
—Yeah.
—My dad says you’re my sister.
Ximena looked at me out of the corner of her eye, as if asking permission to feel whatever she was going to feel. I just nodded.
Mateo extended a thin hand, full of bruises from needles.
—I like you because you don’t seem angry.
My daughter’s face broke for the first time.
He didn’t cry. But I saw the effort.
—I’m just not mad at you.
He smiled again.
—Excellent. My grandmother does spend her time crying.
Ximena gave a brief giggle.
At that moment I understood something essential: the child was not Rodrigo’s inheritance. He was just a scared, sick child, trapped inside a rotten story he didn’t choose. My anger remained intact towards the adults. But with him, there was no longer room for harshness.
The procedure was weeks later.
It was not easy. There were studies, restrictions, fears, consents. Ximena endured everything with a maturity that scared me a little, because sometimes she seemed too adult for her age. I stayed by his side in every analysis, in every puncture, in every previous night where fear sneaked under the door.
The night before the procedure he told me:
—Mommy.
—Yes?
—Do you think they’re going to love me now?
The question undid me.
I approached and took his face.
—Don’t do this for their love. Love that is worth cannot be bought with blood, nor with sacrifices, nor with saving anyone’s life. If one day they love you, let it be because they met you late and understood what they lost. But you’re not here to earn a place. You already have it. With me. Always.
He cried then.
