“Get over it… you know how,” she said, shrugging.
And she left.
On vacation.
With a new husband
and “perfect” children.
I stood there, ticket in hand,
heartbroken.
I didn’t cry.
Not in front of them.
I sat down.
And took a deep breath.
And said the name I’d sworn never to say again:
my father, “the absent one.”
He didn’t ask me any questions.
He simply said,
“Stay there.”
Thirty minutes later,
the private jet landed.
And when my mother returned…
She found my room empty,
and an official notice waiting for her.
It was at Mexico City International Airport.
A Saturday in July. Endless lines.
Happy families with suitcases.
My mother, Valeria Montes, was wearing sunglasses
and an elegant white dress.
Next to her sat her new husband, Ricardo Salazar,
with two blond children,
whom I should have called “little brothers,”
though they looked at me as if I’d
ruined a family photo.
“Find out… you know how,” my mother said,
shrugging.
She handed me a ticket—a cheap flight with a long layover—and gestured toward security, as if sending me to buy bread.
“Mom… what about you?” I asked, feeling a lump in my throat.
“We’re going on vacation. We’ll let you know when we get back,” she replied, her voice still hoarse. Then she leaned forward with that smile that only hurt. “Don’t make a scene. You’re an adult.”
And she was gone. She headed for the VIP entrance with her new family without even looking back. I stood there, clutching my ticket, my heart breaking.
I didn’t cry in front of them. I played no part. I sat on a row of cold, metal chairs, breathing slowly, and called out the name I’d sworn I’d never say again: my father. “The Absent One.” The man my mother spoke of as an inherited shame.
Alejandro Montes answered on the second ring.
