“Then we find out exactly what they buried.”
Within a week, the first piece of evidence appeared: an obituary published six years earlier in a local newspaper. “Mariana Vargas de Santillán, beloved wife.” But there was no valid death certificate. No identified body. No proper file. Only flowers, a private mass, and a story repeated by Doña Graciela. A funeral without a death. A lie dressed in candles.
Then Teresa found something worse: a recorded call from the hospital where I had been treated. A nurse had tried to contact Alejandro to tell him I was pregnant. Doña Graciela had answered the call. She told the nurse they had reached the wrong family. When Alejandro confronted his mother, she did not deny it. According to what his lawyer later told me, Doña Graciela simply said,
“That woman was going to use the pregnancy to trap you. I protected the family.”
But the family she claimed to protect began falling apart. Alejandro requested a paternity test through legal channels. I agreed only under court protection. No visits. No calls. No gifts. No approaching Mateo’s school. Then Doña Graciela made her worst mistake. She hired a private investigator to follow us.
The man appeared twice outside Mateo’s elementary school. He asked a neighbor whether the boy lived with me and claimed it was a “family matter.” I took photos of him. Teresa filed a complaint and requested a restraining order. But someone at the court leaked the file. The next morning, all of Mexico was talking about it.
“Millionaire family allegedly faked former daughter-in-law’s death to hide legitimate son.”
My phone would not stop ringing. Reporters, strangers, curious people, and judgmental voices all wanted a piece of the story. Some called me greedy. Others called me brave. I was neither. I was just a frightened mother trying to protect her child.
That night, Mateo found me crying in the kitchen.
“Mom, is my dad a bad person?”
My heart broke.
“Your dad did something very wrong years ago. But some things were hidden from him too.”
“Did he know about me?”
“Not at first.”
“Does he want to know me?”
I swallowed hard.
“Yes.”
Mateo looked down at his blue dinosaur, the one he carried everywhere.
“Do I have to love him?”
I knelt in front of him.
“No. No one will ever force you to feel anything.”
At that moment, my phone rang. It was Teresa. I answered with trembling hands.
“Mariana,” she said, “the result is here.”
I closed my eyes.
“And?”
Her silence lasted only two seconds, but it felt endless.
“Mateo is Alejandro Santillán’s biological son.”
Outside the window, a black car stopped in front of the building. And I knew the real war was only beginning.
PART 3
The first time Alejandro met Mateo, it was not inside a mansion or an expensive restaurant. It happened in a child therapist’s office, with cameras, signed agreements, and my lawyer waiting outside. Mateo entered holding his blue dinosaur. Alejandro stood up, then immediately sat back down so he would not frighten him.
“Hello, Mateo. I’m Alejandro.”
My son studied him with a seriousness that did not belong on a six-year-old’s face.
“My mom says you’re my biological dad.”
Alejandro swallowed.
“Yes. I am.”
“Do you know about dinosaurs?”
He blinked.
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