or let him know about yourself."
I was so desperate for any sliver of information about the man who'd helped create me that I was ready to promise I'd give up girls if she'd tell me about him. Promising never to see the guy seemed like a good deal at the time.
"Yes, Mom. I promise."
"I was very young when your abuela died and I had to quit school and find work. I got a job cleaning at the house of the local 3 Patron. He was a rich man, but I didn't understand that he made his money from crime—all sorts of crime. At his house, there were many men who worked for him coming and going every day. Men with guns, men who drank too much and were violent. The woman who hired me, she was the head of the house staff, and she made sure that I only worked in the back rooms—the kitchen, the laundry room—where the men wouldn't see me."
She took a deep breath, and I noticed that her hands were shaking. Right then, I felt like a real cabrón for making her tell me the dirty secrets of my origins.
"But when I turned sixteen," she continued, "it was time for me to do an adult's work, so I was promoted to one of the regular maids. That's how I met your father. He was the Jefe's second-in-command, and he lived on the property in a guesthouse. He was ten years older than me—"
She paused, her eyes getting a faraway look in them. "And he was very handsome . Muy guapo. I was so flattered when he paid attention to me, and by the time I was seventeen, I was pregnant with you. As soon as your padre found out I was expecting, he insisted I quit my job and had me move into his casita on the grounds.
“Without my work and the friends I had in the main house, I was very lonely, and Miguel, your padre, was gone a lot with work. He would leave in the middle of the night. He would go for days at a time. I never knew when he might disappear or reappear. He told me to enjoy not having to work and to make sure I was healthy. He wanted a son, and he was very particular that I eat right, get plenty of sleep, and not lift a finger to take care of the house or myself."
I interrupted. "I thought he was a really bad guy, Mom. He sounds like he cared a lot."
She shook her head sadly. "Oh, mijo. The line between caring and controlling is so slim. Once you were born, I began to learn that he didn't know the difference between the two things. He was obsessed with you, and I was there to ensure that every directive he had regarding you was followed to a T."
She stood and began to pace around the room. "By the time you were born, I had also begun to get wise about the business your padre and the Patron were in. I realized that all their money didn't come from any normal sort of businesses, but rather from threatening and blackmailing and, most of all, from selling drugs.
"You were almost two when I stumbled onto your padre doing his work one night. I needed to get some fresh milk from the big house for you. You had woken up and nothing but a cup of milk was going to help you go back to sleep."
I remembered the warm milk that my mom used to give me to help me sleep, and it seemed so odd that she'd been doing that for me in another country, another time, someplace I had absolutely no memory of.
"Walking between our casita and the main house, I heard angry voices. I tiptoed to the fence that surrounded the parking circle and peeked between the iron bars. What I saw… Oh, mijo , that's when I knew I could never stay there and let your padre raise you. Your father was torturing a man—burning him with a red-hot poker while some of the other men held him down. The man was screaming, but they'd stuffed a handkerchief in his mouth to keep him quiet. I still remember the way his legs thrashed as your padre pressed that metal into his skin. There was a thin line of smoke that would rise each time and a smell of burning flesh that wafted through the air as far away as I was."
My stomach roiled as my mother described the torture, and I began to understand why
I was so desperate for any sliver of information about the man who'd helped create me that I was ready to promise I'd give up girls if she'd tell me about him. Promising never to see the guy seemed like a good deal at the time.
"Yes, Mom. I promise."
"I was very young when your abuela died and I had to quit school and find work. I got a job cleaning at the house of the local 3 Patron. He was a rich man, but I didn't understand that he made his money from crime—all sorts of crime. At his house, there were many men who worked for him coming and going every day. Men with guns, men who drank too much and were violent. The woman who hired me, she was the head of the house staff, and she made sure that I only worked in the back rooms—the kitchen, the laundry room—where the men wouldn't see me."
She took a deep breath, and I noticed that her hands were shaking. Right then, I felt like a real cabrón for making her tell me the dirty secrets of my origins.
"But when I turned sixteen," she continued, "it was time for me to do an adult's work, so I was promoted to one of the regular maids. That's how I met your father. He was the Jefe's second-in-command, and he lived on the property in a guesthouse. He was ten years older than me—"
She paused, her eyes getting a faraway look in them. "And he was very handsome . Muy guapo. I was so flattered when he paid attention to me, and by the time I was seventeen, I was pregnant with you. As soon as your padre found out I was expecting, he insisted I quit my job and had me move into his casita on the grounds.
“Without my work and the friends I had in the main house, I was very lonely, and Miguel, your padre, was gone a lot with work. He would leave in the middle of the night. He would go for days at a time. I never knew when he might disappear or reappear. He told me to enjoy not having to work and to make sure I was healthy. He wanted a son, and he was very particular that I eat right, get plenty of sleep, and not lift a finger to take care of the house or myself."
I interrupted. "I thought he was a really bad guy, Mom. He sounds like he cared a lot."
She shook her head sadly. "Oh, mijo. The line between caring and controlling is so slim. Once you were born, I began to learn that he didn't know the difference between the two things. He was obsessed with you, and I was there to ensure that every directive he had regarding you was followed to a T."
She stood and began to pace around the room. "By the time you were born, I had also begun to get wise about the business your padre and the Patron were in. I realized that all their money didn't come from any normal sort of businesses, but rather from threatening and blackmailing and, most of all, from selling drugs.
"You were almost two when I stumbled onto your padre doing his work one night. I needed to get some fresh milk from the big house for you. You had woken up and nothing but a cup of milk was going to help you go back to sleep."
I remembered the warm milk that my mom used to give me to help me sleep, and it seemed so odd that she'd been doing that for me in another country, another time, someplace I had absolutely no memory of.
"Walking between our casita and the main house, I heard angry voices. I tiptoed to the fence that surrounded the parking circle and peeked between the iron bars. What I saw… Oh, mijo , that's when I knew I could never stay there and let your padre raise you. Your father was torturing a man—burning him with a red-hot poker while some of the other men held him down. The man was screaming, but they'd stuffed a handkerchief in his mouth to keep him quiet. I still remember the way his legs thrashed as your padre pressed that metal into his skin. There was a thin line of smoke that would rise each time and a smell of burning flesh that wafted through the air as far away as I was."
My stomach roiled as my mother described the torture, and I began to understand why
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