Your son, the man who tried to feed you dog food, has been fed his own illusion.
Arriaga reaches for the phone.
“May I?”
Luis hands it over without looking at him.
The lawyer scrolls, not far, not long, just enough to find the shape of the conspiracy. Messages about getting you declared incompetent. Messages about pressuring Luis to ask for “his inheritance early.” Messages about the maternity clinic. Messages about Daniel’s name on the baby’s possible paperwork.
Then one message from Karla to Daniel:
Luis is easy. He hates feeling poor more than he loves his dad.
Your son makes a sound like something wounded.
You look away.
That sentence is not only cruel.
It is accurate.
And he knows it.
Karla starts packing that afternoon.
Not because she suddenly respects boundaries.
Because Luis tells her to get out.
The hypocrisy almost makes you laugh. Thirty minutes earlier, he was furious at you for giving him thirty days. Now he wants her gone before dinner.
