Isabella had barely finished the sentence when Eduardo felt his legs give way.
He looked at the paper again.
Then another one.
And one more.
The children’s names were there.
Mateo Vargas.
Jesus Vargas.
Guadalupe Vargas.
Same blood.
Same last name.
Same father.
**Arturo Vargas.**
His father.
The man whom the people called honorable.
The man whose photograph hung in the main office of the estate.
The man who had taught Eduardo to speak of respect, surname, and authority.
“No…” he murmured, stepping back. “No. That can’t be true.”
Isabella did not try to touch him.
She didn’t cry any louder.
He did not kneel.
She just stood still, like a woman who had carried a pain for too long that could not be explained with words.
“I knew you wouldn’t believe me at first,” she said. “That’s why I kept everything. That’s why I hid the letters. That’s why I endured the insults. That’s why I let everyone think the worst of me.”
Eduardo held up one of the photos.
Isabella appeared much younger in it.
She had a rounder face, a clear, almost childlike gaze.
Beside him were three small, skinny, frightened children.
And behind it, partially cut off by the image, you could see the old stable of the Vargas estate.
“Since when?” he asked, his throat tight.
Isabella swallowed.
—Since I was fifteen years old.
That answer broke his heart.
Eduardo felt nauseous.
—My father did that to you…
She closed her eyes.
“The first time he told me that if I spoke, my mother would lose her job and we’d be thrown out on the street. The second time he told me that no one would believe a poor girl over the landowner. The third time he didn’t even threaten me. He already knew he had me broken.”
The room was filled with an unbearable silence.
Outside, the party music had almost died away.
Only a few distant voices remained, and the wind was banging against the windows.
“The children…” Eduardo said, almost breathless. “Where are they?”
Isabella took a few seconds to respond.
—Alive.
That single word brought his pulse back.
-Where?
—Hidden.
Eduardo stared at her.
—I need you to tell me everything. Now. Without hiding anything from me.
Isabella nodded slowly.
And it began.
She told him that her mother had worked for years on the farm.
That Arturo Vargas saw her grow up.
They were gifts at first.
Then favors.
Then orders.
When she became pregnant for the first time, he sent her away for a few months with a midwife from the neighboring village.
When Mateo was born, he did not allow him to be registered publicly with his surname.
He gave money to the official.
He pulled strings.
He left everything hidden.
The same thing happened with Chucho.
And with Lupita.
But the cruelty did not end there.
To prevent anyone from suspecting that the children were his, Arturo invented another story.
He started saying that Isabella was a nobody.
A promiscuous woman.
A disgrace.
A crazy woman.
And the people did what they always do: they believed the powerful man.
“And my mother?” Eduardo asked, feeling a cold worse than the fever that almost killed him.
Isabella lowered her head.
—Your mother knew about me.
Eduardo remained motionless.
—No.
“I don’t know if he knew everything at first. But over the years he found out. One night he called me to his office. I thought he was going to help me. I thought that finally someone was going to defend me. But he said something I could never forget.”
Isabella’s voice broke.
—He told me: “Shut up and at least your children will eat.”
Eduardo felt like something inside him had just broken.
All his life.
His entire house.
All of his blood.
Rotten.
“The scar?” he asked, looking at the old wound that crossed his skin.
Isabella pressed her lips together.
