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—It’s all there. Contracts, emails, recordings, names. I kept it for years, but I never had the courage.
Teresa understood. That was the choice.
Signing and burying the truth to save a false peace.
Or bring everything to light and risk what little they could still protect.
—Why didn’t you hand it in earlier?
Maria Luisa clumsily wiped her face.
—Because it also implicates me.
Teresa said nothing.
It was easy to love an innocent daughter. What was difficult was loving a guilty, broken, and frightened daughter.
The man picked up the pen from the table.
—Memory is useless if no one emerges socially unscathed from this. It will fall with us.
Teresa felt the weight of that phrase.
María Luisa was not just a victim. She had signed. She had kept silent. She had sent money.
And Teresa had lived off that money without asking enough questions.
The truth didn’t come clean. It came with mud for both of us.
Another car pulled up outside. This time it wasn’t a truck. It was an inconspicuous gray sedan.
The man in the suit clenched his jaw.
—Time’s up.
The door opened without knocking.
Kang Jun entered wearing a black coat, his silver hair at the temples, and with an elegant calm.
Teresa recognized him instantly from the photos, although in person he seemed less human.
He looked at Maria Luisa first, then at Teresa.
—So the mother came for Christmas.
His Spanish was slow, but clear.
Teresa felt nauseous upon hearing his voice. Twelve years behind a screen, behind transfers, behind silences.
—You stole my daughter’s life.
Kang Jun patiently removed his gloves.
—No. I gave her a life that you couldn’t give her.
The phrase was a slap in the face.
Maria Luisa got up.
—Don’t talk about her.
Kang barely smiled.