Sofía, and a settlement negotiated with the hidden savings of that impoverished family, along with the threat of more serious charges if they continued to litigate. It wasn’t purity.
It was survival with stamped papers.
Three days later I returned to San Gabriel.
Lidia was waiting for me in the inner garden, sitting under a small jacaranda tree, wearing a clean uniform and with a less tense expression. When she saw me arrive with Sofía, she put her hands to her mouth. The little girl hesitated for barely a second before running to her.
The three of them hugged for so long that a nurse had the decency to look away.
“It’s over,” I told her.
Lidia cried silently. I did too, even though I hated doing it in front of others.
We didn’t reveal the change immediately. The director was already considering discharging “Nayeli Cárdenas” due to extraordinary progress.
When we finally clarified the truth with the lawyer’s support and the documents, there was confusion, reprimands, bureaucratic threats, and a huge uproar.
But something unexpected also happened: the hospital’s new psychiatrist, a reserved but fair woman, reviewed my entire file and said something I still remember.
“Sometimes we lock up the wrong person because it’s easier than confronting the right kind of violence.”
Two weeks later, we walked out the front door together.
No bars. No escorts. No fear.
We rented a small, sunny apartment in Puebla, far from Ecatepec, far from the hospital, far from anything that smelled of confinement.
We bought a good mattress, thick towels, a wooden table, and a sewing machine for Lidia.
I built a bookshelf. Sofía chose flowerpots and planted basil as if planting something green were a promise.
