Then “Mr. Alejandro”.
Months later, one afternoon while he was helping her with a math assignment as the twins slept, the girl looked up and asked:
—Do you also stay when you’re no longer in the news?
Alejandro looked at her in silence.
-Yeah.
—Even though I no longer elicit pity?
-Yeah.
Lucia watched him as if she were verifying a promise.
Then he nodded.
And he continued writing.
A year later, Mariana entered a final hearing.
Ramiro was convicted.
Ricardo too.
They didn’t give back the time.
They did not erase the damage.
But this time there was a verdict.
And there was truth.
As they left the courthouse, journalists crowded around looking for a picture, a phrase, a tear.
Mariana simply hugged her three children.
Lucia, in her school uniform and with her hair neatly combed, no longer looked like the soaked little girl who entered a supermarket barefoot with wet coins in her hand.
But she was still herself.
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The same one who didn’t let go of the cans of milk.
The same one who didn’t give up when everyone laughed.
He approached Alejandro and placed something in his palm.
It was a small cloth bag.
Inside there were coins.
Few.
Shining from having been kept for so long.
“What is this?” he asked.
Lucia smiled with a beautiful seriousness.
—I told him that when he grew up I was going to pay him back.
Alejandro felt his throat close up.
