Chapter 6 - My Mother’s Private Agreement
Marta held out the photograph.
“Look at her.”
I didn't take it.
Mauricio still stood across the corridor with the gun lowered toward the floor, but his eyes never left the briefcase.
Mariana was behind me, breathing unevenly.
“Who is that?” I asked.
Marta's expression broke.
“A child who should have been yours.”
My hand slowly reached for the photograph.
It showed a little girl.
Maybe seven or eight years old.
Dark hair.
Large brown eyes.
A small scar near her left eyebrow.
She was sitting on a wooden chair beside a birthday cake.
There were no balloons.
No parents.
Just the child and the cake.
On the cake were two candles.
I turned the photograph over.
A date had been written on the back.
Eight years ago.
My fingers went numb.
“This is impossible.”
Marta shook her head.
“No.”
She looked at Mariana.
“It isn't.”
Mariana stepped around me.
Her eyes locked onto the photograph.
The moment she saw the girl's face, she covered her mouth.
Then she whispered:
“The eyes.”
I looked at her.
“What?”
Mariana was crying.
“I remember those eyes.”
I stared at the photograph again.
Something inside me resisted the thought.
A photograph couldn't prove identity.
A child could resemble thousands of people.
But there was something about the face.
Something familiar.
The shape of the mouth.
The small crease beside the left eye.
I had seen it somewhere.
Or maybe I wanted to see it.
Mauricio shifted his grip on the gun.
“Enough.”
I turned toward him.
“You knew.”
“No.”
“You knew about her.”
“I knew there was a child.”
“Whose child?”
He didn't answer.
Marta did.
“Yours.”
Mariana made a broken sound.
I felt as though the floor had moved beneath me.
“Why would you take her?”
Marta lowered her eyes.
“I didn't take her.”
“Then who did?”
She looked at Mauricio.
He stared back at her.
“Marta,” he said quietly.
She shook her head.
“No more.”
My mother appeared behind him.
I hadn't heard her approach.
She was no longer wearing the calm expression from earlier.
Her face was pale.
“Give me the photograph.”
Marta turned.
“No.”
“Ofelia.”
My mother took one step forward.
“You don't understand what you're doing.”
Marta laughed bitterly.
“I understood eight years ago.”
My mother looked at me.
“Adrián, come with me.”
I stared at her.
“You knew.”
She didn't answer.
“You knew our daughter survived.”
“Adrián…”
“You knew.”
Her eyes filled with something I had never seen there before.
Regret.
Or fear.
Maybe both.
“I was trying to protect you.”
“From my own daughter?”
“No.”
“Then from what?”
She looked at Mariana.
“From the people who wanted her.”
Mariana stepped forward.
“Who?”
My mother remained silent.
Mariana's voice broke.
“Who wanted my baby?”
My mother finally whispered:
“The people who funded your pregnancy.”
I frowned.
“What does that mean?”
My mother looked toward Mauricio.
He lowered the gun slightly.
She continued.
“Your father had debts.”
I shook my head.
“My father was wealthy.”
“Not everything you inherited was clean.”
“What debts?”
“Private loans.”
“From whom?”
She swallowed.
“People who didn't care about money.”
The corridor became silent.
Mariana held her stomach.
“Why would anyone care about a baby?”
My mother looked directly at her.
“Because your daughter was valuable.”
“Why?”
“Because of who her father was.”
I laughed bitterly.
“That's ridiculous.”
My mother shook her head.
“No.”
She walked closer.
“Your father had spent years fighting to keep certain people away from the family business. He discovered they were using private clinics to move money and hide identities.”
I stared at her.
“And our baby was connected to that?”
“Not intentionally.”
“Then how?”
My mother looked at the photograph.
“Your pregnancy was monitored.”
“By whom?”
“The clinic.”
“What clinic?”
She didn't answer.
Marta did.
“Santa Elena.”
My heart stopped.
Santa Elena was the private medical center where Mariana had been treated during the final weeks of her first pregnancy.
The same place where we had been told our baby died.
The same place where Mariana had heard crying.
I turned toward her.
“You never told me the clinic name.”
She looked confused.
“It was Santa Elena.”
“I thought we changed hospitals after the first appointment.”
“We did.”
I stared at her.
“No.”
Mariana frowned.
“I remember going there.”
“Your medical records say you were never admitted.”
Her face changed.
“What?”
I opened the briefcase.
There was another document.
A patient intake form.
Mariana's name.
Her blood type.
Her medical history.
The date of admission.
And a handwritten note:
Transfer authorized by O. Lozano.
I held it up.
“My mother authorized your transfer.”
Mariana stared at her.
“Why?”
My mother closed her eyes.
“Because the doctors at Santa Elena were compromised.”
I shook my head.
“You sent her there anyway.”
“I thought I could control what happened.”
“You thought?”
My voice rose.
“You thought?”
Mariana began crying.
“You let them take my baby.”
My mother looked broken.
“I thought she would be safe.”
“You thought?”
“I was told they would only use the child as leverage.”
I froze.
“Leverage for what?”
My mother didn't answer.
Mauricio finally spoke.
“For the company.”
I looked at him.
“What company?”
“The family logistics contracts.”
I stared.
“You sold our daughter for a business deal?”
“No.”
“Then explain.”
He lowered the gun completely.
“The people involved wanted access to your father's shipping routes.”
I felt sick.
“That's insane.”
“They had information about your father's business.”
“So they threatened him?”
“They threatened everyone.”
“And my baby became part of the negotiation.”
Mauricio nodded.
Mariana whispered:
“And you all agreed?”
He looked at her.
“I wasn't the one who made the decision.”
My mother stepped forward.
“I made it.”
Everyone went silent.
She looked at me.
“I signed the agreement.”
Mariana stared at her.
“What agreement?”
My mother didn't answer.
Marta pulled a folded document from her medical bag.
“This one.”
She handed it to me.
The paper was old.
Yellowed at the edges.
There were three signatures.
My mother's.
Mauricio's.
And a third name.
I recognized it immediately.
Dr. Esteban Herrera.
My hands began shaking.
The document stated that the newborn would be transferred to a private guardian following delivery.
No explanation.
No medical justification.
Just one clause that made my stomach twist.
The biological parents will not be informed of the child's location.
I looked at Mariana.
She was crying silently.
“I never agreed to this.”
“I know,” Marta said.
I looked at her.
“Then why did you participate?”
Her face hardened.
“Because I was afraid.”
“Of whom?”
She glanced at my mother.
“Of everyone.”
I looked back at the contract.
At the bottom was another handwritten note.
Payment received in full.
My mother's name was beneath it.
I felt something inside me go cold.
“Did you get paid?”
My mother looked at me.
“Yes.”
Mariana gasped.
“For our daughter?”
My mother shook her head.
“No.”
“Then for what?”
“To keep you alive.”
I stared at her.
She reached into her handbag.
This time she didn't pull out another document.
She pulled out a photograph of my father.
He was standing beside a younger version of Mauricio.
Behind them was a warehouse.
On the back was another date.
And another sentence.
If Ofelia refuses, they will kill Adrián next.
I stared at the words.
My mother began crying.
“I chose you.”
Mariana shook her head.
“You didn't choose him.”
She pointed toward the contract.
“You chose to sacrifice our daughter.”
My mother looked at her.
“I thought I could get her back.”
“Did you?”
“No.”
“Then what happened?”
My mother looked at Marta.
Marta answered.
“She disappeared.”
I frowned.
“What do you mean?”
“The guardian took her.”
“Who?”
Marta looked toward the photograph.
“The woman who raised her.”
“Where is she now?”
Marta hesitated.
“She lives in Guadalajara.”
My heart slammed against my ribs.
“Where?”
“She changed her name.”
“What's her name?”
Marta looked at my mother.
My mother whispered:
“Lucía Vargas.”
Mariana suddenly stepped backward.
“Wait.”
Everyone turned toward her.
Her face had gone white.
“I know that name.”
I stared at her.
“From where?”
She shook her head.
“I don't know.”
“Mariana.”
“I've heard it.”
“Where?”
She pressed a hand against her forehead.
“In the hospital.”
“When?”
“After the miscarriage.”
I stepped closer.
“What did you hear?”
She closed her eyes.
A memory seemed to surface.
“A nurse was talking to someone outside my room.”
“What did she say?”
Mariana began trembling.
“She said…”
Her voice became barely audible.
“She said the girl had been transferred to Lucía.”
I felt my stomach drop.
Marta nodded slowly.
“Yes.”
Mariana looked at her.
“You knew.”
“I did.”
“Why didn't you tell me?”
“Because they threatened to kill her.”
“Who?”
Marta looked toward the corridor.
Then she whispered:
“Your mother wasn't the person giving the orders.”
I turned toward Ofelia.
She was crying now.
“Who was?”
Marta's eyes moved toward Mauricio.
Mauricio looked away.
I stepped toward him.
“You.”
“No.”
“You were there.”
“I was a lawyer.”
“You signed the agreement.”
“I was protecting the family.”
“You helped steal my daughter.”
He stared at me.
Then his expression changed.
Not anger.
Fear.
“Adrián…”
My phone vibrated.
One message.
Unknown number.
I opened it.
A photograph appeared.
The same little girl.
But older.
Maybe eight now.
She was standing outside a school.
Beside her was a woman.
The woman turned slightly toward the camera.
I recognized her immediately.
Lucía Vargas.
Under the photograph was one sentence:
SHE KNOWS WHO HER REAL PARENTS ARE.
Another message appeared.
AND SHE JUST ASKED WHERE HER MOTHER LIVES.
Mariana grabbed my arm.
“Adrián.”
I looked at the screen.
A third message arrived.
SHE'S COMING TO YOUR HOUSE TONIGHT.
My blood went cold.
I looked toward the corridor.
Someone had already entered the building.
And somewhere above us, an elevator bell sounded.
Once.
Twice.
May you like
Then the display stopped on our floor.
The doors began to open.
