The woman standing in the doorway was not a notary.
It was Julia Castañeda, your attorney, wearing a dark blazer, rain still shining on her shoulders, and a look on her face sharp enough to cut glass. Behind her stood two hospital security guards, a uniformed police officer, and a man you did not recognize carrying a folder marked Accident Reconstruction Report.
Darío’s hand went stiff around yours.
Renata’s perfume suddenly seemed too sweet, too rotten, too obvious.
For twelve days, they had spoken over your body like you were already a memory. They had called you a vegetable, planned your death, discussed taking your son out of the country, and waited for your body to give up. But now someone had walked into the room who did not look at you like a dying woman.
Julia looked at you like a witness.
Darío recovered first, the way liars always do when they have practiced being charming.
“Julia,” he said, forcing a tired smile. “This is a family matter. Isabel is not conscious, and you have no right to come in here making accusations.”
Julia did not blink.
“Emiliano called me at 6:14 this morning from a nurse’s station phone,” she said. “He told me his father was pressuring doctors to withdraw care and that his aunt Renata was talking about taking him out of Mexico once his mother died.”
Renata’s face changed.
Just a little.
But you saw it through the darkness behind your eyelids.
Darío released your hand.
“That boy is traumatized. He misunderstood.”
Julia stepped farther into the room.
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