She denied again.
—No. I want to know.
I took a deep breath. I approached and sat next to him. I took his hand.
—What they are saying is that the child in their other family is very sick. And they think maybe you could be compatible to help him.
Ximena looked down at our clasped hands.
—Is it my brother?
The question was so clean that it broke us all.
Rodrigo began to cry in silence.
I did not care.
—Biologically, yes —I answered clearly—. But that doesn’t force you to do anything.
She looked up at me.
—Can you die?
I didn’t want to decorate it.
—Yeah.
A long silence fell over the room.
Ximena looked at Rodrigo. He held it for several seconds. He couldn’t stand it. He lowered his eyes like a man who suddenly sees himself from the outside and doesn’t like it at all.
—You never looked for me —she said.
Rodrigo broke down completely.
—I know.
—You never asked about me.
—I know.
—You never wanted to meet me.
He wiped his face desperately.
—I have no excuse.
And for the first time, I believed it. Not that he was nobly sorry. Only he had no more presentable lies left.
Ximena turned to me.
—If I say yes, is it going to hurt?
I explained to him what I knew: that studies, analysis, compatibility came first; that if it was suitable, there would be medical procedures; that there were risks, yes, but also protocols; that nothing would be done without information or consent; that I wouldn’t let anyone touch her emotionally to force her.
She listened to everything without interrupting.
Then he asked something that ended up breaking me.
—What if I get sick from helping him, are they going to come for me?
Nobody responded.
Not Rodrigo.
Not Ophelia.
The silence was a confession more brutal than any word.
I took my daughter’s face in my hands.
—I do. Always.
She nodded slowly.
