He was a widowed millionaire. Older than my mother. Heavy-faced, slow to walk, always breathing as if the air itself cost him effort. People said he was strange but dependable. Rich but private. A man who protected what belonged to him.
And now, legally, I belonged to him.
That was what I had told myself while signing the papers.
Not for love.
Not for dreams.
For my mother’s medicine. For my brother Mateo’s school fees. For the overdue bills piled on our kitchen table like accusations. For the prescription my mother kept folding and unfolding because she knew we could not afford it.
“I’m not selling you, daughter,” she had whispered, crying into her hands. “I’m begging you not to let us drown.”
So I said yes.
Because hunger makes love sound selfish.
Because illness turns dignity into a luxury.
