Carlos stiffens. “Lucía.”
“What?” she says. “I saw her picture on the Christmas card.”
You have no answer ready for that.
There is something unbearable about being recognized not as a person but as a framed symbol, a signature at the bottom of paychecks, a glossy holiday image mailed from your forty-third-floor conference room. You look away from the child and back to the table, to the envelope with your company name gleaming on paper that suddenly looks predatory. “Why didn’t you tell anyone?” you ask Carlos. “About this. About any of it.”
He laughs once, a short brittle sound.
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