I looked at Ofelia. I never imagined seeing her like this: without perfect makeup, with a cheap black shawl, her hands clinging to an old bag. Still, the first thing I thought was no compassion. It was instinct. Something is wrong.
Rodrigo swallowed.
—We need to talk to you.
—No.
He was going to close the door, but Ofelia took a step forward. His eyes were red. I don’t know if it’s crying or not sleeping. And then he spoke some words that, if someone had said them to me a week before, I would have sworn impossible.
—Please.
It wasn’t an elegant performance.
It was a collapse.
I stayed still for a second.
Ximena was already standing behind me, in silence.
Ofelia saw her over my shoulder and her face fell apart in a strange way. As if she were looking at a ghost that she herself had helped kill and yet had grown beautiful.
—She’s just like you —he murmured.
The phrase made my stomach turn.
—Don’t say a single word about my daughter —said.
Rodrigo closed his eyes for a moment, as if he were already expecting hostility and came prepared to endure it.
—We don’t come to fight. Just… let us explain.
I looked at Ximena.
She held my gaze and nodded barely, as if to say: you decide, I’m fine.
That gave me strength.
I opened the door just enough.
—Five minutes.
They entered with that humiliating discomfort of those who set foot in a life that they previously despised and now need. Rodrigo looked around with a difficult expression to read. Maybe surprise. Maybe calculation. Maybe both. Our apartment was not luxurious, but it was full of order and warmth. There were plants in the window, photographs of Ximena at different ages, stacked books, a yellow lamp that made everything warmer. You could tell that people who loved each other lived there.
I pointed to the couch.
I didn’t offer them coffee.
I didn’t offer them water.
Nothing.
They sat down. Ofelia did it with a nervous rigidity. Rodrigo stood on the edge of the chair, hands clasped, staring at the floor for a second before speaking.
—Camila died.
The name hit me late.
