PARTE 2
During the return, Camila didn’t speak. When she woke up near home, she lowered the parasol mirror and asked: —Mom… am I ugly now? I parked and hugged her. —You’re still you. No one can cut that out. That night, Ana, Fernanda’s neighbor, recorded forty-four seconds from the garden: Camila crying, my mother saying she “wouldn’t steal attention” and Fernanda leaving with her phone up. But the hardest blow came later. At 2:20 in the morning, they called from the General Hospital. My dad, Roberto, was in the emergency room. —Mariana, I have lung cancer. They diagnosed me in February. My mom knew and had asked me not to tell her because, according to her, I “already had enough of my widowhood.” Then my dad revealed something worse. Between January and April, Beatriz withdrew 156,000 pesos from the account meant for her treatments.
Four retreats registered as medical expenses. None of them were doctors. The money had been paid for enrollments, dresses, trips, and contest advice from Fernanda. My father had managed to move the rest of his savings to an account with me. —I just want you to know the truth before your mother tells you hers. At 6:14, dad arrived at my house in the rain with a folder full of bank statements. At 7:42 the doorbell rang. In the camera I saw my mother, Fernanda, and behind them, Javier, my sister’s husband, holding three credit card statements. Fernanda brought a beige folder. My father looked at the door. —Let them in. This is over today. When my mother crossed the kitchen and saw Roberto sitting in front of me, I understood that no one would leave that house with the same version of the family. And Fernanda still didn’t know which of her secrets was about to explode first.
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