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Maria Luisa didn’t look at her.
One of the women opened a folder and took out papers with red stamps, passport copies, photographs, and sheets full of numbers.
—If he doesn’t sign today, everything will be handed over to immigration, the press, and the prosecutor’s office.
Teresa could barely understand a few words, but she understood enough. Threat. Papers. Scandal. Punishment.
“She doesn’t sign anything,” Teresa said.
Everyone turned around.
Maria Luisa paled.
The man looked her up and down, with dangerous patience.
—And who are you?
Teresa felt her daughter staring at her, pleading for silence. But she also remembered another image.
Maria Luisa at the airport, hugging her as if she were leaving her soul in her arms.
And he remembered 12 Christmases with an empty plate.
—I am his mother.
The silence was so profound that even the truck’s engine seemed to fade away.
Maria Luisa closed her eyes, defeated.
The man didn’t seem surprised. He simply tucked a sheet of paper into the folder.
—Then the missing piece arrived.
Teresa stepped forward.
—I don’t know what’s happening, but my daughter is coming with me.
The young man on the phone let out a brief laugh.
—Ma’am, this is not a Mexican novel.
Teresa looked at him with a calmness she didn’t even know she possessed.
—No. It’s worse. Because it’s real.
Maria Luisa lowered her head. For the first time since she arrived, she seemed more like a daughter than an adult.
The man in the suit placed the folder on the table.
—Her daughter agreed to work for Mr. Kang 12 years ago. It wasn’t marriage. It was a front.