“They’ll fall before the flowers fade,” she told her. “Don’t argue. Call Adriana. Laugh first. It’ll hurt them even more.”
Verónica thought she was delirious from the medication. But Simón wasn’t delusional. Simón documented everything.
Adriana opened the next section of the folder.
“Before anyone lies again, it’s important to know that Simón left evidence of unauthorized entry into this house while he was hospitalized.”
Mariana grabbed the back of the chair.
„Co?”
Adriana placed three photos on the table.
The first showed Graciela entering the apartment with a key. The second showed Óscar searching through a desk. The third showed Mariana photographing Simón’s personal documents with her cell phone.
The policeman leaned forward slightly to look.
“This changes things,” he said.
Doña Graciela zbladła.
“My son would never record us.”
Adriana replied dispassionately:
“Your son installed the cameras after the documents disappeared from this desk two years ago.”
Verónica closed her eyes. She didn’t know that Simon had taken more than he told her.
The lawyer pulled out a sealed envelope.
“He also left detailed instructions for this moment.”
The envelope had Verónica’s name written in Simón’s handwriting.
She opened it with trembling fingers.
Inside was a short note:
“Vero: forgive me for leaving you this garbage in the midst of your grief. If it’s there, don’t negotiate. They didn’t come to say goodbye. They came to take a life they never respected. Adriana knows what to do. And if my mother asks what I left her, tell her exactly what she deserves.”
Doña Graciela heard the last sentence and froze.
“What does it mean?”
Adriana pulled out the last piece of paper.
“This means that Simón actually left a small legacy.”
Graciela lifted her chin.
“Then I deserve something.”
“Yes,” Adriana said. Simón left you, Óscar, Mariana, and other relatives one peso each, along with a non-contestation clause.
No one breathed a sigh of relief.
Graciela looked at Verónica with hatred.
“It won’t end there.”
Adriana closed the briefcase.
“If you object, we will launch an investigation into fraud, fictitious loans and misuse of family documents since Father Simón’s death.”
Óscar muttered something vulgar.
Mariana started crying.
But Graciela didn’t lower her gaze.
“He wouldn’t dare destroy his own mother.”
Verónica clutched the letter to her chest.
“No, Graciela. You destroyed it first.”
And then Adriana uttered a sentence that froze everyone:
“We’re still waiting for the recording Simón made for the records.”
PART 3
Nobody wanted to move.
The apartment, which moments ago had resembled a flea market, fell silent. Open suitcases revealed Simón’s shirts like wounds. His books lay scattered about in disarray. The urn, next to the wilted flowers, seemed to stare at everyone from the doorway.
Doña Graciela was the first to react.
“I do not authorize any recording.”
Adriana looked at her with unbearable calm.
“You don’t have to authorize anything. Simón recorded it while in his right mind, in the presence of two witnesses and with notarization.”
“My son was sick.”
“He was sick, but not unable to work.”
Verónica felt her legs tremble. She wanted to scream, to cry, to break something. But Simón’s voice, even in his absence, comforted her.
Don’t argue. Don’t let them turn your grief into defense.
The auxiliary police officer asked everyone to step away from their suitcases. Luis supervised as the family members removed their belongings one by one.
Simón’s belongings were removed and put back in their places. Each item returned like a small act of atonement: shirts to the closet, books to the shelf, laptop to the desk, watches to the wooden tray by the bed.
Óscar tried to put the watch in his pocket.
The policeman noticed him.
“Leave it on the table.”
Óscar immediately dropped it.
Mariana cried silently, but not from sadness. It was fear. Fear that the photos, access codes, and documents would reveal more than she could explain.
Doña Graciela stood in the middle of the room, stiff, defeated, but still venomous.
“It’s all your fault,” she told Veronica. “Before you were a good son.”
Verónica looked at her with dry eyes.
“No. Before me, Simón was an open wound.”
The sentence hit harder than the insult.
Adriana plugged the flash drive into Simón’s laptop. The screen lit up after a few seconds. Then he appeared.
Simón sat in a hospital bed. He had a thin face, a deep voice, and tired eyes, but he was still himself: calm, precise, with a way of speaking that never needed volume to command respect.
Veronica covered her mouth.
“Vero,” Simón said in the recording, “if you’re watching this, it means I couldn’t get home. Forgive me for that. Forgive me for leaving you with that last fight, which wasn’t yours.”
Veronica began to cry quietly.
Simón was breathing heavily, but he smiled slightly.
“If my family is there, I hope you did what I asked. I hope you laughed.”
Veronica burst out laughing through her tears.
Doña Graciela turned her face away, feeling uncomfortable.
In the video, Simón continued:
“For many years, I confused being a good son with allowing abuse. I confused silence with remaining calm. My mother and some relatives used my name, my documents, and my feelings of guilt to solve problems they themselves created. I protected them more than once. Not out of fear. Out of shame. Because it hurt me that the people who were supposed to take care of me only knew how to get their money.”
Oscar lowered his head.
