Maria Luisa pressed her fingers against her skirt.
—I already said I’m not going to sign.
The man smiled without joy.
—You’ve been signing worse things for 12 years.
The sentence landed in the room like a stone. Teresa looked at her daughter, searching for an immediate explanation.
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.
