One night, while we reviewed documents at the kitchen table, she told me,
“Your mother isn’t afraid of losing you, Julian. She’s afraid of losing control.”
Now I understood.
But far too late.
I picked up the phone and called Dr. Ana Lucía Méndez, Camila’s friend and the director of the private hospital where my mother claimed my wife had died.
She answered on the second ring.
“Julian,” she whispered. “I’ve been trying to reach you for hours.”
My blood went cold.
“Tell me the truth.”
Silence followed.
Then her voice dropped lower.
“Camila was not brought to the hospital properly admitted. No identification. No file. No admission bracelet. Your mother demanded an immediate cremation. I refused.”
The room seemed to tilt.
“And my son?”
Dr. Ana Lucía took a shaky breath.
“I can’t say this over the phone. Come tomorrow at six in the morning. Use the emergency entrance. And don’t tell anyone.”
