Medical bills you postponed because Karla wanted “one nice weekend” in Valle de Bravo.
You open folder after folder, receipt after receipt, statement after statement. Your son’s laughter keeps rising through the floorboards, but little by little, it stops sounding like pain. It becomes evidence.
By midnight, the total sits on the screen.
One million, one hundred and eighty-six thousand pesos.
That number does not include the food you cooked, the laundry you did, the dignity you swallowed, or the empty chair where Lupita should have been sitting tonight.
You lean back and stare at the total until your eyes burn.
Then you open your banking app.
Luis has two additional cards linked to your account. You gave them to him three years ago “for emergencies.” At first, emergencies meant gas, groceries, medicine when he had the flu. Later, emergencies became sneakers, restaurants, liquor, Karla’s beauty appointments, streaming subscriptions, and deliveries arriving at your door while you ate leftovers standing by the sink.
