Chapter 22 - The Unwanted Letter
When Mateo was eighteen months old, the past attempted to reach out from the dark. I was sitting at the kitchen table, feeding him mashed carrots, when my father walked in holding a stack of mail. His jaw was clenched, and his eyes were dark with suppressed anger.
"What is it, Papa?" I asked, wiping a smear of orange puree from Mateo’s chin.
He hesitated, holding up a standard white envelope stamped by the federal penitentiary system. "It is addressed to you. The return name is Carmen Villalobos."
The spoon slipped from my fingers, clattering loudly against the ceramic bowl. The name alone sent a phantom ache through my ribs. Doña Carmen. The woman who had watched her son beat me, who had handed him the black girdle, who had smiled while I suffocated.
"Throw it away," I said instantly, my voice trembling.
"Are you sure?" my father asked gently. "You do not want to know if she feels remorse?"
"She doesn't know the meaning of the word," I replied, standing up and taking the envelope from his hands. I stared at her neat, cursive handwriting. It was the same handwriting that used to write out the strict, impossible household rules she expected me to follow.
I carried the envelope to the sink.
"I used to beg her for help," I told my father, striking a match. "I used to look into her eyes and plead for mercy, and she told me it was my duty to endure it."
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"She is a wicked woman, Valeria. She is where she belongs," he said, stepping closer to support me.
"She has no power here," I whispered. I touched the flame to the corner of the envelope. We stood in silence, watching the paper curl, blacken, and turn to ash in the stainless steel sink. I turned on the faucet, washing the remnants down the drain. I turned back to Mateo, who was giggling and reaching for his cup, completely untouched by the ashes of the past.
