Unbearable.
—What’s your name? —asked him.
The old woman raised her head slowly.
—Maria Elena.
—And you say I’m your daughter?
—I’m not saying it —he responded—. I’ve known this since I saw you walk out that door three months ago.
I swallowed.
—How?
—Through your eyes.
I felt a chill.
—Many people have honey eyes.
She denied.
—But not like yours. Not even that way of frowning when you think. Not even that scar behind the eyebrow.
My hand went alone to my left eyebrow.
The scar.
My mother always said I fell off a bike when I was four years old.
—What happened at that clinic? —I asked for.
My mother raised her voice.
—Andrea, this is over.
