The silence from the other side lasted too long.
—Camila… how old are you?
-Sixteen.
-Where are you?
—At the Guadalajara airport.
-With who?
I swallowed.
—With no one. My mother went to Spain with her husband. She sent me to Mérida, but the person who was supposed to receive me didn’t even know.
The woman took a deep breath.
—I’m Lucía Aranda, Mr. Villaseñor’s assistant for the past eighteen years. I need you to do something: stay close to airport staff. Don’t go out with anyone.
—Does he know who I am?
Another pause.
-Yeah.
—Since when?
—Since you were born.
I felt my throat close up.
—My mom says she abandoned me.
—Camila, I’m not going to speak ill of your mother to you. But I can tell you one thing with absolute certainty: Daniel has been trying to find you for years.
I got up so fast that I hit the suitcase.
-Years?
-Yeah.
—Then why did he never come?
—Because every address we had became invalid. Because some notifications were returned. Because there were subsequent family law proceedings that I can’t explain to you over the phone.
—Is he there?
—It’s in Querétaro.
—Can I speak to him?
I heard movement, a door, and voices.
Then a man said:
—¿Camila?
I couldn’t answer.
—I’m Daniel.
My eyes filled with tears.
—Did you know I existed?
Her voice broke.
—Of course I knew.
—Why didn’t you look for me?
—I looked for you.
-It isn’t true.
—I have a whole box of returned letters, Cami. I have files, emails, cohabitation requests, photographs. I have the returned gifts. I have…
It stopped.
—I have twelve birthdays that I couldn’t give you.
I covered my mouth.
Nobody had ever called me “Cami” like that.
—My mom said you didn’t want to be a dad.
—That was never true.
I sat down again.
—Then come.
I didn’t think of the phrase.
It just came out.
Daniel took a second.
—I’m going there.
-How much?
“The next commercial flight leaves too late. We have a company plane in Querétaro that’s used for visiting logistics centers. I’m on my way to the airport now. Lucía is going to contact child protection services and the terminal staff so no one can pretend you can just come with me because I’m on a report. We’re going to do this properly.”
That last sentence reassured me more than any promise.
Almost an hour later, a worker from the Office of the Attorney for the Protection of Girls, Boys and Adolescents arrived accompanied by airport staff.
They checked my documents, called my aunt Beatriz, and recorded that my mother had left me without a confirmed responsible adult at the destination.
I was explaining everything when I saw movement on the other side of the windows.
An executive turboprop had just parked on a distant platform.
It wasn’t a jet from a movie or a scene with millionaires.
It was a small white plane, with the discreet NorteVía logo near the tail.
About twenty minutes later, a man appeared walking quickly, accompanied by a woman carrying a folder.
I recognized him before anyone told me his name.
Daniel stopped six meters away from me.
He didn’t run to hug me.
He didn’t try to touch me.
She just looked at me with her eyes full of tears.
—Hello, Camila.
I pressed my certificate to my chest.
-Hello.
He slowly exhaled.
—You’ve grown so much.
That phrase pierced me.
He didn’t say “you’ve grown so much” like someone who was seeing me for the first time.
He said, “You’ve grown up.”
As someone who kept a small version of myself in their memory.
The official took us to an office.
Daniel handed over identification, a copy of my birth certificate, and documents from old family proceedings.
He couldn’t take me without authorization, and he said he wouldn’t.
While they were checking everything, he opened a portfolio and took out a photograph.
I was four years old, wearing a yellow dress, and sitting on his shoulders in a park.
The photograph was complete.
His face was not torn off.
It was exactly the same mutilated image that I had found when I was a child.
“Your mom took that picture,” he said.
Then he took out a yellowish envelope.
My name was written on the front in a letter I didn’t recognize.
—This came back when you turned seven.
Then he took out another one.
Eight.
Other.
Nine.
Ten.
Once.
Sweet.
Each envelope had return stamps.
I started to cry silently.
Then Daniel took out one last sheet of paper, much newer.
—And this —he said— came to me when you were thirteen.
She put it on the table.
—You supposedly wrote it.
I looked at the signature at the end of the document.
