Paloma let out a small laugh.
—How convenient.
I looked down at the envelope that said “Family coffin, north crypt.” The wax seal was broken. Inside was an old, yellowed photograph, taken in the convent courtyard.
It showed an elderly woman in a white habit, long before I became Mother Superior. On the back, written in blue ink, I read: “Mother Agnes. First objection. Buried without registration.”
The air grew thick.
—You said that the first mother who asked questions was there—I told Paloma.
She lifted her chin.
—And it’s still there.
Esperanza pressed the baby to her chest.
—What did they do to me?
Paloma looked at her as if the young nun were just another piece of furniture in the office.
—They gave him shelter, food, and purpose.
“What did they do to me?” Esperanza repeated, this time more quietly.
The doctor closed the briefcase with a sharp click.
—Don’t complicate things. Your children are healthy.
The phrase landed in the room like a stone.
Consuelo covered her mouth. Julián took a step back and bumped into a chair. The little boy, Miguel, woke up at the noise and began to cry too, clinging to Esperanza’s habit.
I opened the second envelope. It contained copies of receipts, transfers, and handwritten notes. “San Ángel Lot — PV” appeared over and over again.
Each supposed donation for medicine, paint, roof repair or food had the same origin: a private clinic with no visible sign, registered under the name of a foundation.
Pure Life Foundation.
PV
Paloma Vázquez.
—You created the foundation—I said.
Paloma sighed, as if I were tiring her out.
—I organized what you didn’t know how to manage.
—Babies?
—Opportunities, Mother.
Esperanza let out a sound that was neither a cry nor a scream. It was something breaking as it left her body.
—My children are not opportunities.
Paloma looked at her for the first time with annoyance.
—Without me, you would have been just another nun hiding behind a wall.
Then the phone on my desk rang.
Nobody breathed.
The old device vibrated on the wood next to the rosary. Once. Twice. Three times.
Paloma looked down at the number. Her smile disappeared.
I recognized the area code before I picked up the horn.
—Mother Caridad—said a male voice—. This is Ernesto Robles, Esq., from Public Notary Office 42. We received your emergency envelope at 10:05. Are you alone?
I looked at Paloma.
-No.
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