In the private hospital, the speed of money did what misery never allows: open doors, doctors running, operating room ready, incubators, tests, antibiotics, blood.
The woman was admitted as an emergency patient.
Lucia stayed in a white room, sitting in a chair that was too big for her body, her hands reddened by the cold and her clothes still wet.
The twins, finally fed, slept nearby.
Alejandro watched the girl for several minutes without speaking.
She didn’t speak either.
He just stared at the door through which his mother had been taken away.
Finally, he sat down opposite her.
—What’s your mom’s name?
—Mariana.
—And that man?
Lucia took a while to respond.
As if saying his name could summon him.
—Ramiro.
—Is he your dad?
The girl denied it.
-No.
—The one for babies?
He nodded.
She remained silent again.
Alejandro waited.
I had learned years ago that sometimes silence asks more questions than words.
“My mom worked cleaning houses,” she finally said. “When she got sick, he said he was going to take care of her. Then he said he couldn’t work anymore because he had to be with the babies. After that, he started selling things. The stove. The fan. The working phone.”
-And you?
—I used to take care of my little brothers.
She said it with a nonchalance that broke your heart.
Did Ramiro hit you?
Lucia lowered her gaze.
He didn’t answer.
It wasn’t necessary.
Alejandro felt an old pressure in his chest.
A memory.
He didn’t invite her. She arrived alone.
She was eleven when she saw her own mother hiding a bruise with cheap makeup. She was twelve when she learned to recognize the sound of a slap on the other side of a wall. She was thirteen when the man who shared her last name left her at the hospital and said it was “just a slip.”
Her mother’s name was also Mariana.
It wasn’t the same face.
It wasn’t the same life.
But that absurd coincidence hit him where it hurt the most.
Perhaps that’s why she never married.
Perhaps that’s why he had built companies, hotels, towers, foundations and a reputation as an impeccable man, while inside he was still the child who one night understood that money doesn’t always arrive on time.
A doctor approached.
—Mr. Castillo.
Alejandro stood up.
Lucia too.
—The patient arrived with a severe infection after a complicated delivery. There was also a poorly managed hemorrhage. Frankly, a few more hours and we wouldn’t have made it.
Lucia started crying again.
“But is he alive?” asked Alejandro.
—For now, yes. She’s in surgery. There’s something else…
The doctor hesitated.
—She has injuries that are not explained by childbirth. Old and recent bruises. We suspect sustained physical violence.
Alejandro nodded only once.
He didn’t seem surprised.
Just colder.
—Activate protocol. Social work. Public Prosecutor’s Office. Child protection.
—It’s already underway.
Lucía heard that last sentence and was startled.
—No… don’t call the police… if Ramiro gets angry…
Alejandro crouched down to be at her level.
Listen to me carefully. This time he’s not going to be in charge again.
The girl watched him with a strange mixture of terror and need.
“Everyone says that,” he murmured. “Then they leave.”
That phrase did more damage than any reproach.
Alejandro opened his mouth.
She closed it.
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