When I sat down in the front row, he leaned toward me, using that condescending tone he’d learned to wield as a weapon.

“You’re not needed here,” he murmured.

I glanced at him. His eyes shone with impatience, as if he wanted to move on quickly, as if my father’s death were merely an interruption to his schedule. I didn’t reply. I just smiled. Because he knew nothing, absolutely nothing, about what I was about to discover.

The funeral proceeded solemnly. Speeches, white flowers, somber glances. I remained silent, with the strength of someone who had awakened from a long slumber. Tomás, on the other hand, seemed annoyed by my distant behavior; he was used to me asking questions, doubting, obeying.