My stepmother laughed and said to me, “You’re not from this family,” so I raised my glass and replied, “Then don’t ever ask me for money again”… and at that moment my father discovered the lie that had been hidden from him for years.

For a second, I felt like I was fifteen again, realizing that in that house I had only ever occupied borrowed space. I was my father’s daughter from his first marriage. Mauricio was the cherished son, the chosen one, the future. I was the one expected to be grateful just to have a chair at the table.

And still, I had been paying.

For eighteen months.

Almost every month, I had transferred fifty thousand pesos. Sometimes more. Always for some emergency: “the mortgage,” “your father’s medication,” “helping Mauricio through a rough patch,” or “don’t tell Rogelio because it will affect his blood pressure.” The same urgent tone every time. The same ending too: you’re the only one I can trust.

So I lifted my glass.