PART 2
“What are you doing?” my mother asked me, jumping to her feet.
I took the microphone before the master of ceremonies could stop me.
“Relax. I just want to congratulate my brother the way he deserves.”
Diego smiled nervously.
“Elena, that’s enough.”
“No. Today everyone should know how much this degree cost.”
The ballroom froze. Mr. Morales stood beside me and opened the first folder. On the giant screen, where Diego’s photos had been moments before, an image of a bank transfer appeared.
“First semester: thirty-eight thousand pesos,” I said. “Second semester: forty-two thousand. Clinical materials: seventeen thousand. Uniforms, internships, rent, registration, re-enrollment. It all came from my account.”
My mother turned pale.
“That’s a lie. She always exaggerates.”
“Here are the tax receipts,” the lawyer said. “There are also conversations in which Mrs. Teresa asks Miss Elena for money to cover young Diego’s university expenses.”
Messages appeared on the screen.
“My girl, please, help me this month.”
“Diego can’t know that you’re paying. He’ll feel inferior.”
“When he has his own office, he’ll thank you.”
My brother lowered his gaze.
“That doesn’t prove anything,” my stepfather said. “In families, everyone helps.”
“Of course,” I replied. “That’s why I also want to talk about the dental office you were going to open next month.”
I saw Diego’s eyes widen.
The lawyer pulled out another document.
“Miss Elena had committed an investment of eight hundred thousand pesos to equip Mr. Diego’s office. The transfer was scheduled for tomorrow, conditioned on the signing of a family debt acknowledgment agreement.”
My mother put her hand to her chest.
“What agreement?”
“One you refused to sign because you preferred to humiliate me and keep saying I was jealous.”
Diego approached the microphone.
“Elena, sister, don’t do this here.”
“Not here? But here you could let them take my chair away?”
Someone in the back murmured:
“How shameless.”
My mother changed her tone.
“Daughter, come on, let’s talk outside.”
“No, Mom. We’ve already talked outside too many times. Now we still have to talk about my grandmother’s tortilla shop.”
The entire room shifted as if someone had opened a window in winter.
My mother shouted:
“That tortilla shop is mine!”
The lawyer raised the second folder.
“Not according to the will registered before a notary four months before Mrs. Josefina’s passing.”
My grandmother’s signature appeared on the screen. I felt my knees trembling, but I did not lower my voice.
“My grandmother left the tortilla shop to me. My mother presented a later copy with a forged signature.”
“Shut up!” my mother screamed.
“I can’t,” I replied. “Not anymore.”
