My family celebrated while my son was buried—then demanded his trust the next day, and I realized his death was no accident but the start of a chilling betrayal

it meant now. Doña Lupita, who brought soup and asked nothing. Rodrigo Salazar, who had charged me a quarter of his hours and refused to discuss it. Santiago’s parents, who had driven from Monterrey with a letter and their grief and their clear, uncomplicated love for their grandson. The nurse who had said you can wear whatever you want here.

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