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Valeria lowered her gaze.
Maria continued crying.
Ximepa didn’t move.
Ricardo took a deep breath.
—But I do understand something: if any of those babies is going to carry this story, they’re not going to carry it alone.
Maria looked at him harshly.
—I’m not interested in you being killed for guilt.
“It’s not fault,” Ricardo replied. “I wish it were that simple. It’s responsibility. And also… an opportunity I hope to have again.”
The doctor closed the file and got up.
—I recommend legal and genetic advice.
There will be questions in the future, especially if you wish to explain it to the children later on. But from a clinical point of view, there is no doubt: the three pregnancies are the product of the same progenitor, and Mr. Mendoza is the carrier of that genetic line.
He stepped aside, ready to leave, but Ricardo stopped him.
—Doctor.
The man turned around.
—Was that twin… that other DNA… my brother?
The doctor held his gaze.
—Biologically, yes. Even if it has existed as a separate person.
Ricardo nodded slowly.
Then he smiled. Not with joy. With a strange sadness that seemed to have taken seven years to achieve it.
—All my life I’ve felt alone —he murmured— and it turns out I was accompanied.
Nobody knew what to say.
Fυe Ximeпa qυieп, after a few seconds, stood up.
—I don’t forgive easily—he said—. And even less this. But my son isn’t to blame for his dad being such a disaster with two DNAs.
Mariana let out an involuntary laugh through tears.
Valeria also smiled, barely.
The tension didn’t disappear, but it changed shape. It was no longer a knife; it was an open wound that, at least, everyone could see.
Maria got up afterwards.
—I’m going to need time.
“Take it,” Ricardo said.