PART 4: The Fragile Hands
Mateo was barely recognizable.
The bright, energetic seven-year-old boy who had laughed by the lemon tree eleven months ago was gone. In his place was a skeletal child with sunken cheeks, skin as pale as parchment, and hollow eyes that blinked painfully against the dim indoor light. His clothes hung off his emaciated frame like tattered rags, caked in dirt and grime. His hair was long, matted, and wild.
Yet, as he looked up at me, a weak, trembling smile touched his cracked lips.
—I knew you wouldn't forget me, Dad —he whispered, raising a trembling hand to touch my cheek.
—Never, buddy. Never in a million years —I choked out, wrapping my arms around his fragile body, careful not to squeeze too hard for fear he might break in my hands.
I lifted him up effortlessly—he weighed almost nothing—and hauled both of us out of the hole and back onto the pristine wood floor of the living room.
Camila scrambled forward, her little face filled with a mixture of awe and fear. She reached out and gently touched Mateo's dirty knee.
—You're back —she said simply.
Mateo nodded weakly, leaning his head against my shoulder.
I stood up, holding my son tightly against my chest, and turned to face my sister. Verónica was pressed back against the far wall, sliding down to the floor until she sat in a heap among the shattered pieces of the ceramic vase. Her hands were buried in her hair, and silent, shaking sobs racked her body. She didn't look like the untouchable, perfect woman anymore. She looked cornered, ruined, and profoundly guilty.
May you like
—Explain this —I said, my voice dangerously low, vibrating with a rage that threatened to consume me. —Explain why my son has been living under your floor for eleven months.
Verónica didn't look up. She kept her face hidden, rocking back and forth as the full weight of her monstrous secret finally collapsed upon her.
