PARTE 2
La primera carpeta estaba etiquetada:
"Universidad de Fernanda."
Dentro había recibos de matrícula, alquiler, libros de texto, un ordenador e incluso multas de aparcamiento que había olvidado por completo pagar. Juntos, sumaron más de 850.000 pesos.
Luego encontré la carpeta de su boda con Javier.
El lugar.
El catering.
Las flores.
El vestido.
El fotógrafo.
La banda de mariachi.
La mesa de postres.
Casi un millón de pesos gastados en una celebración que duró un solo día.
Los padres de Javier habían contribuido con dos cajas de vino.
Después vinieron los documentos relacionados con su casa.
Cuando Fernanda y Javier quisieron comprar una casa en una zona cara de Juriquilla, el banco se negó a aprobar su préstamo. Firmé como aval.
Dos años después, cuando el negocio de jardinería de Javier tuvo problemas, pagué discretamente su hipoteca durante seis meses para que no perdieran la casa.
Seguí revisando los archivos.
Coches.
Tres diferentes.
"Préstamos" que nunca se pagaron.
Tarjetas de crédito de emergencia.
Gastos escolares para mis nietos.
Y lo que más dolió:
En 2019, Javier estuvo al borde de la bancarrota. Fernanda me llamó llorando, diciendo que estaban a punto de perderlo todo.
That same day, I transferred 1.5 million pesos into their account.
Six months later, they bought a boat.
When I finally finished adding everything up, the number on the calculator took my breath away.
Over fifteen years, I had given them, loaned them, or paid for more than seven million pesos.
Seven million.
And my Mother’s Day gift had been a plastic flower.
It wasn’t about the money.
I had money.
I had done well because I worked like a mule for decades, because Ernesto and I lived modestly for years while building the company.
What hurt was realizing that my generosity had become invisible.
To my daughter, I wasn’t her mother.
I was an unlimited credit card.
I opened my phone and reviewed our conversations from the previous year.
“Mom, can you watch the kids Friday?”
“Mom, Javier needs your truck.”
“Mom, can you help with tuition?”
“Mom, can you transfer some money today? I’ll pay you back later.”
Not a single “How are you?”
Not a single “Do you miss Dad?”
Not a single “Let’s have lunch together.”
Then I reviewed my company accounts.
Javier’s business held maintenance contracts for three of my commercial properties.
I paid him thirty percent above market rates.
Fernanda also handled bookkeeping for several small clients I had referred to her.
She earned good money for very little work.
They weren’t independent.
They were adults living on a support system I quietly maintained.
The following Monday, I met with my attorney, Mariana Chen.
She had worked with me for twelve years and knew every corner of the company.
“I want to sell Aguilar Consultants,” I told her.
Mariana set her pen down.
“Teresa, that company is your life.”
“That’s the problem.”
I told her everything.
The lunch.
The ring.
The cruise.
The flower.
The documents.
The numbers.
Mariana listened without interrupting, though I could see her expression hardening.
