“Alberto,” I said, “sit down.”
He didn’t. I didn’t insist.
I opened my photo gallery and turned the screen toward my daughters.
The first image showed a younger Carmen standing in front of a state child services building, holding a folder. The second showed two little girls holding my hands in front of a courthouse. Lucía was six. Renata, four. Their eyes were wary—like children who had learned too early that promises are broken.
“That’s… us,” Lucía murmured.
“Yes,” I replied. “That was the day I became your legal guardian. Not the day you were born.”
Renata shook her head.
“No… that’s not true. Why would you say something like that here?”
I looked at him.
“Why would I say what you said here?” I replied. “On my birthday? In front of everyone?”
Alberto clenched his jaw.
“Carmen, don’t do this. Don’t rewrite the story.”
“I’m not rewriting it,” I said. “I’m finally telling it in full.”
I took a deep breath.
“Your biological mother was my cousin, Patricia. She struggled with serious addiction. When the State intervened, you went through three foster homes in less than two years. When I found out, I went to court. No one forced me. I chose to do it.”