I looked at my sister. The spoiled brat I’d hated for years stood before our parents, head held high, pale but resolute. Suddenly, I realized I’d looked at her for too long only through the lens of resentment. Yes, she’d been given everything I’d been denied. Yes, I’d accepted privileges tainted by injustice. But in that moment, I didn’t see a convenient accomplice; I saw someone who’d lived inside the machine and who finally dared to interfere with its workings.
“Tell him yourself,” she said to my mother.
Mercedes Herrera closed her eyes.
—I will not take part in this obscenity.
Álvaro let go of Clara’s hand and stood beside her, not facing her. He wasn’t protecting her; he was supporting her. It was a small detail, but I clearly noticed it.
“Then I’ll tell you,” Clara said. “Six months ago, Álvaro and I went to visit Grandpa Ignacio when he was already very ill. Do you remember? You told us not to go because he was sedated. We went anyway.”
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