Chapter 15 - BEATRIZ ASKS TO SEE ISABELLA
Beatriz requested supervised contact.
Her attorney called it an important step toward family healing.
I called it impossible.
The court called it something to evaluate.
Isabella was asked what she wanted.
She said no.
That should have ended it.
Beatriz persisted.
She wrote letters.
I did not give them to Isabella.
Her therapist reviewed them first.
Most began with apologies.
Then came excuses.
I was overwhelmed.
Your father left too much responsibility on me.
You were difficult sometimes.
I only wanted you to become strong.
Ana stopped after the third letter.
“These are not apologies.”
she said.
“They are attempts to renegotiate blame.”
So Beatriz did not see Isabella.
Then Vanessa Moreno came to see me.
Beatriz’s older sister.
We had barely spoken during my marriage.
She looked embarrassed.
“I should have said something years ago.”
My stomach tightened.
“What?”
“Beatriz has always needed to win against women who came before her.”
“What does that mean?”
“Old girlfriends.”
“Ex-wives.”
“Dead mothers.”
She looked ashamed of the phrase.
“When you married her, she talked constantly about Elena.”
“She wanted to know whether you still loved her.”
“Of course I still loved Elena.”
“I know.”
“But Beatriz treated that love like an insult.”
Vanessa told me Beatriz had searched Elena online.
She had visited the cemetery alone.
She had even asked whether I planned to move Elena’s belongings out of storage.
I thought those questions came from insecurity.
Maybe they did.
But insecurity had hardened into resentment.
“Did she hate Isabella?”
I asked.
Vanessa shook her head.
“Not at first.”
“She hated what Isabella represented.”
“A part of your life she could never replace.”
That distinction did not comfort me.
Then Vanessa handed me a folder.
“I found this at our mother’s house.”
Beatriz had stored documents there.
Inside were letters she never sent.
One was addressed to me.
If Isabella were gone, maybe we could finally have our own family.
I read the line repeatedly.
Vanessa looked horrified.
“I don’t think she meant dead.”
she said quickly.
I looked at her.
“I think she meant boarding school.”
“Or living with someone else.”
“Or simply out of sight.”
But that was enough.
My daughter had become an obstacle in Beatriz’s imagination.
Not a person.
Not a grieving child.
An obstacle.
Then I found one final document.
A fertility clinic invoice.
Patient.
Beatriz Moreno.
Date.
Four months before I left for Dubai.
The treatment had been canceled.
Reason.
Patient withdrew.
I stared at it.
Beatriz had never told me she was trying to become pregnant.
And attached to the invoice was a handwritten note.
May you like
MATEO:
Once we have our own child, everything changes.
