Things with Clara didn’t suddenly work out. These things only happen in bad soap operas. It took months to learn to speak without reservations, without defending ourselves, without settling scores every five minutes. We argued. We cried. There were awkward silences and uncomfortable truths. But there was also a beginning. Today I see her some afternoons in Mexico City. Sometimes Álvaro comes over with his mother, Elena Vargas, who still hugs me as if she perfectly remembers the exhausted girl who delivered her folders in Monterrey.
I know almost nothing about my parents. I know enough.
And, strangely, the lesson in independence they tried to impose on me proved useful. It made me strong not through their cruelty, as they intended, but through what I chose to build despite it. The difference is significant.
Because a daughter can leave home with a suitcase and a silent rage. But when she returns with the truth in hand, she no longer returns as a piece of junk.
She returns as the only one who can name the ruins.
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