Diego was in the waiting room. I allowed him to come in later, after I had already held them, kissed them, and called their names.
He entered slowly.
As if the room were a church.
Upon seeing them, he covered his mouth.
—Laura…
—Don’t speak loudly.
He nodded.
He approached the crib.
Nicholas barely opened his eyes.
Emilia moved her mouth as if searching for milk.
Diego cried again.
—They are perfect.
I looked at him.
—Yes. And you’ll never use its existence to erase what you did.
He shook his head.
-No.
—Not even to pressure me.
-No.
—Not even to say that we’re family like before.
That hurt him.
—So what are we?
I looked at my children.
I thought of the woman who saw two lines and ran happily to show proof.
I thought about the one who was called unfaithful.
In which she vomited while reading a cruel publication.
In which she heard two heartbeats and decided never to kneel again.
“We’re the parents of Nicolás and Emilia,” I said. “That’s a lot. But it’s not marriage.”
Diego closed his eyes.
He accepted.
I don’t know if it was for real or because I had no choice.
Months later, the DNA test was done.
