Her husband, Mr. Javier, fell ill from the shock and died three years later. People in her neighborhood, Roma Norte, said Mrs. Elena was very strong for continuing on alone, running her small sweet-bread shop and living while clinging to the hope of finding her daughter. For her, Sofía had never died.
Eight years later, on a stifling April morning, Mrs. Elena was sitting at the doorway of her bakery when she heard the engine of an old pickup truck stop. A group of young men came in to buy water and conchas. She barely paid attention—until her gaze froze. On the right arm of one of the men, there was a tattoo of a girl’s portrait.
The drawing was simple, just outlining a round face, bright eyes, and braided hair. But to her, it was unmistakably familiar. A sharp pain pierced her heart; her hands trembled and she nearly dropped her glass of cold water. It was her daughter’s face—Sofía’s.
Unable to contain herself, she dared to ask:
— My son, this tattoo… who is it?…
The question hung in the air, trembling between the street noise and the aroma of freshly baked bread.