Mrs. Rebeca Rivas.
Expensive heels. Designer bag. Strong perfume that made my mother’s small living room feel even smaller.
My mom welcomed her, thinking she came to talk like an adult.
She was wrong.
Mrs. Rebeca placed a yellow envelope on the table.
— Fifty thousand pesos, she said calmly, for your daughter to change schools and stop making things up.
My mom didn’t touch the envelope.
My dad did.
Not to take it. To throw it on the floor.
— My daughter is not for sale.
I wanted to cry with relief.
But Mrs. Rebeca smiled, a thin, sharp smile.
— Then get ready. Because my son is not going to take responsibility for a girl with no future.
No future.
That’s what she called me.
As if my baby were already a stain. As if my belly were a public shame and not a life.
The next morning, my dad didn’t speak at breakfast. My mom brushed my hair harder than usual, as if she could brush away the pain. When we arrived at school, I understood why.
There was a meeting.
The principal. The counselor. Mateo’s mother. My parents. And Mateo sitting in the back, uniform perfect, eyes dry like he had practiced this moment in the mirror.
I walked in trembling, one hand instinctively resting on my still-flat stomach.
— Sit down, Valeria, the principal said.
I didn’t sit. I couldn’t.
Mrs. Rebeca spoke first, her voice smooth and confident.
— My son is being falsely accused. This girl wants to ruin his reputation because he didn’t want to be her boyfriend.
My mom squeezed my hand so tightly I almost winced.
