“Yes, Anita. I do know him.
Don Beto, who no longer understood anything, raised both hands.
“Well, I better step aside.
Anita gently pulled her mother’s hand.
We can go to dinner, right? It’s raining and he waited.
Monica opened her mouth to refuse, but she saw in her daughter’s eyes something she didn’t want to put out: hope. And he also saw Diego, standing, without imposing himself, without wanting to buy anything with his money or with his presence.
“Just for dinner,” he said at the end. Nothing more.
They went to a small little fort of the colony, with marred windows, smell of fresh coffee and hot soup. Anita asked for enchiladas; Diego, against all custom, allowed himself to be advised by the girl and asked for the same. Monica only observed it for a moment before asking what had been kept for years.
Why did you look for me?
Diego did not resort to beautiful phrases.
Because I couldn’t forget you.
Monica looked down at her cup.
Sometimes forgetting is a privilege.
He didn’t contradict her.
Little by little, between spoonfuls and silences, the story came to the table. That night on the road, Monica was already pregnant. She lived fleeing from Rogelio, a violent man who had left her with debt, invisible beatings and fear in the back. Helping Diego had been a boost, nothing more. When he wanted to thank her, she accepted the coat because the cold was breaking her and because she had almost nothing.
“That coat saved me more than one winter,” he said, touching the fabric on Anita’s shoulders. Then he saved me.
Diego felt a knot in his throat.
I should have found you earlier.
Monica looked at him with serene firmness.
Maybe. But then I wasn’t ready for anyone to find me.
Anita, who was foreign to the depths of words, swept her Jamaican water and asked the simplest and hardest:
Are they going to see each other again?
None answered.
It was Diego who took her back home under the drizzle. It was a modest, clean house, with pots at the entrance and worn but perfectly washed curtains. A home raised to pulse. Before getting out of the car, Monica said without seeing it:
Don’t confuse this dinner with an open door.
“I don’t confuse her,” he replied. But if you ever open one… I do think I’m waiting outside.
The next day, Diego returned to his office in San Pedro Garza Garcia. Glass, steel, assistants, joints, orders. Everything was the same. Until a presentation featured a list of stations that your company would close upon completion of an acquisition.
Among them was that of Guadalupe.
Monica’s.
Anita’s.
“That list freezes,” he said immediately.
The chief financial officer looked at him, bewildered.
But it’s part of the cut.
“Not anymore.
“Diego, it’s small operations. The impact is minimal.
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