I remembered that call. I’d been standing at a loading dock, distracted, impatient to get back to work. I’d thought I was being a good father by backing up my wife.
“After that she kept my phone,” Sofia went on. “She gives it back for an hour a day, and she reads everything.”
“What about school?”
She looked away. “My grades dropped. The teachers sent emails. But Tía Patricia changed the contact address to hers. She told them you knew and were handling it.”
I had no idea. Not a single message had reached me.
Then I asked about her arm.
She pulled her sleeve down over it. “Abuela Elvira grabbed me. I spilled coffee on her blouse. She held on and told me if I ever told you anything, she’d make sure you sent me to live with my grandmother in Zacatecas and I’d never see you again.”
