The entire estate smelled of jasmine, white wine, and disaster.

It gave me the true version of my story.

Things with Clara didn't suddenly work out. These things only happen in bad soap operas. It took months to learn to speak without reservations, without defending ourselves, without settling scores every five minutes. We argued. We cried. There were awkward silences and uncomfortable truths. But there was also a beginning. Today I see her some afternoons in Mexico City. Sometimes Álvaro comes over with his mother, Elena Vargas, who still hugs me as if she perfectly remembers the exhausted girl who delivered her folders in Monterrey.