**PART 2 — They left me with a one-way ticket and no one waiting for me on the other side**

—Am I going too?

—I finally asked.

Gerardo drank water.

My mother put down the fork.

—You have a school.

—It’s Easter break.

Silence.

—Then why don’t I go?

Gerardo spoke first.

—Because this trip is to spend time with my children.

I looked at him.

—And my mom?

—Your mom is my wife.

I felt my chest harden.

—She’s also my mom.

Marisol sighed.

—Camila, please.

Where am I going to stay?

—With your aunt Beatriz.

—He lives in Mérida.

-Exactly.

—I haven’t seen her for three years.

—Well, they’ll have the opportunity to live together.

Two days before the trip I asked when they would buy my return ticket.

My mother replied:

—We’ll look at that later.

I thought it was an expression.

It wasn’t.

He woke me up at 4:20 on Saturday.

My suitcase was downstairs.

I didn’t remember preparing it.

Mom had stored clothes for me.

On the way to the airport, Regina was talking about buying a bag in Madrid.

Emiliano was checking

stadium videos.

I was glued to the window.

When we arrived, Gerardo brought down six large suitcases.

Then he took out a small one.

Mine.

My mother led me to a different counter.

—Your flight leaves at nine ten.

—My flight?

He took out an envelope.

Inside there was $3,800 pesos.

A reservation for Guadalajara-Merida.

Only ida.

And a certified copy of my birth certificate.

—Aunt Beatriz will pick you up.

I looked at the ticket.

—And when am I coming back?

—We’ll see when we get back.

-Mother…

—Don’t start.

—You’re sending me to the other side of the country alone!

Several people looked at us.

She lowered her voice.

—You’re sixteen years old. There are teenagers who work, study, and help out at home. You can get on a plane.

Does Beatriz know I’m coming?

-Of course.

—Let me call him.

My mother stretched out her hand.

—Camila.

-That?

—Don’t ruin my trip.

That hurt me more than the ticket.

Gerardo appeared behind her.

—Marisol, we have to go through security now.

My mother

He gave me a quick kiss on the forehead.

—Write to me when you arrive.

-That’s all?

—Don’t make a scene.

And they left.

I watched them walk away until they blended in with the crowd.

I waited ten minutes.

Then I called my aunt Beatriz.

He answered with the sound of a road.

-Mosque?

—Auntie… what time are you coming to pick me up?

Silence.

—To where?

I felt my hands go cold.

—To the Mérida airport.

—Camila, I’m in Campeche for work.

—Mom said I was going to stay with you for nineteen days.

-That?

I sat down.

—Didn’t you know?

—No. Your mom asked me about a month ago if I would be in Mérida during Holy Week. I told her probably not.

I closed my eyes.

—Then I have nowhere to stay.

—Don’t get on any plane until I’ve spoken to her.

I hung up.

I called Mom.

He didn’t answer.

Again.

Nothing.

Then a message arrived.

“We’re about to board. I can’t talk.”

Below:

“Beatriz will resolve it. You too.”

you can solve it.”

I looked at the $3,800.

Then my record.

And for the first time I read it completely.

Birthdate.

Hospital.

My mother’s name.

And underneath was a line that made all the noise from the airport disappear.

Father: Daniel Villaseñor Lozano.

Villaseñor.

The surname of the hidden document.

The man who, according to my mother, had never wanted to meet me.

I took out my phone.

I wrote her name.

And the first thing that appeared on the screen made me understand why Gerardo had pronounced that surname with fear.

Daniel Villaseñor Lozano was not a celebrity, but his name appeared in enough business notes for me to understand in less than five minutes that I was not looking for a man impossible to locate.

He was the founder of a Mexican refrigerated transport and logistics company called NorteVía, with distribution centers in Jalisco, Querétaro, Nuevo León and the State of Mexico.

There were interviews, photographs of inaugurations, and even a conference where he spoke about food exports.

I opened a recent image.

He was in his early fifties, with gray hair at his temples and a small scar next to his left eyebrow.

I stared into her eyes.

They were mine.

Not similar.

The same ones.

I found the corporate phone number and called before I could change my mind.

A woman replied:

—NorteVía, general management.

—I’m looking for Mr. Daniel Villaseñor.

—From whom?

I looked at my record.

—Camila Robles Medina.

There was a pause.

—Can you repeat your name?

I did it.