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Wine
Tea
tea
My father’s expression hardened.
—This has nothing to do with it.
—It’s all connected. Because Grandpa was lucid. And he was terrified.
That word pierced the garden like a knife wound.
I remember my grandfather Ignacio as the only adult in that house who ever looked at me with tenderness. He gave me mystery novels, let me sit in his study, and never commented on my clothes, my weight, or my grades. When I left home, he was the only one to slip a bag of money into my purse without a word. I never knew how much he had to insist to convince me to do so.
“He asked us to close the door,” Clara continued. “Then he told me he’d made a huge mistake and had been trying to make amends for years without success. He handed me a blue folder.”
I felt a shiver down my neck.
A blue folder.
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