“Lucía, please…”
“Don’t speak to me,” I said. “You didn’t ask if I was okay when I was dying. Don’t ask me for mercy now.”
The trial was swift. The evidence was overwhelming: the recordings, the signed documents, the testimony of Dr. Martínez and the nurses.
I sat in the front row, flanked by my parents. I wore a red dress—bold, bright, alive.
I watched as the judge read the sentencing.
Teresa: Twenty years. Trafficking and conspiracy.
Andrés: Fifteen years. Accessory and fraud.
Karla: Five years. Complicity.
They lost everything. The house was sold to pay for my medical bills and the girls’ trust funds. The insurance policy they coveted so much was voided for them, but the company paid out a settlement to me for the fraud attempt.
I changed the locks. I burned the wedding dress in the backyard, watching the lace curl into black ash. It felt like a cleansing.
I named my daughters.
Esperanza, for the hope I held onto in the dark.
Milagros, for the miracle of the twin they tried to hide.
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