Chapter 3 Bread with salt and a crying sister

The street smelled damp and neglected. The sky, covered in a gray blanket, was beginning to spit out a fine drizzle. Amelia ran with soaked shoes, her uniform still damp from cleaning, her heart heavy, and her thoughts tangled.

Dad... again. Why? Why do you always run away when we need you most?

The words echoed: "They saw him at the terminal, Amelia. He was running away. The debt isn't small."

The voice belonged to Mauricio, a man from another era in her life. He had been her father's partner, a trucker like him. She remembered him vaguely: his smell of diesel and cigarettes, his voice of scraped stone, his intermittent presence. He was never family, but he showed up when others didn't. In difficult times, that counted.

The metal gate creaked as it closed behind her.

Amelia pushed with her shoulder against the broken door of her house. The latch was loose, like everything else. The wind seeped through the gaps in the wooden walls, and the ceiling dripped with the insistence of an open wound. One drop. Another. And another. As if the world were reminding her that things could always get worse. Inside, it smelled of mold, stale soup, and resignation.

"Emilia?" The small, trembling voice came from the corner where an old mattress served as bed and shelter.

Isabelita.

Her six-year-old sister was huddled under a holey blanket. Her cheeks were flushed with fever, her body weak, her eyes large and scared. Her nose was running, and her breathing was harsh, as if it hurt simply to be alive.

"I'm here, my love," Amelia said, falling to her knees beside her.

The little girl. Her body, fine bones, and large eyes. She looked like her mother. Her mother when she was still laughing. When abandonment hadn't yet claimed her youth. Amelia gently brushed the sweaty hair from her forehead.

"Have you eaten anything?"

Isabelita shook her head.

"There was nothing," she murmured. "Just a piece of bread. But it was moldy..."

Amelia closed her eyes for a second. She swallowed. She couldn't cry. Not now.

She stood up abruptly and went to the kitchen-a tiny space with a single, barely usable stove. She checked the cupboards. Nothing. Just a jar of salt, another with old coffee, and an empty can of powdered milk.

She searched her purse. She counted the coins.

Fifty-three centavos.

"I don't even have enough for an egg..."

She returned to Isabelita, holding the stale bread. She scraped it with a knife until the mold was gone, and broke it in half. She sprinkled a little salt on top. Like when they were little girls and played princesses and this was their "royal food."

She gave it to her sister.

"Bread with salt. Our favorite," she said, forcing a smile.

Isabelita took it and bit into it without saying a word. Amelia watched her eat with a lump in her throat. She had a fever. Not high, but enough to worry her. And the cough that hadn't gone away for weeks. There was no medicine. No doctor. No father.

"And Dad...?"

The question was a sharp blow.

Amelia swallowed.

"I don't know, Isabelita. But don't worry. I'll take care of you. Like always."

She stroked her hair, now tangled and sticking to her sweaty face.

Isabelita smiled weakly before biting. She chewed slowly, as if it were difficult for her. Amelia watched her eat with a mixture of tenderness and guilt. It wasn't fair. For such a young girl, the world shouldn't be so cruel.

Her cell phone vibrated in her pocket. Mauricio again.

"What else do you know?" she answered without saying hello.

"I told you what I saw." Your old man got off a truck like a bat out of hell. He asked for a guy named Gordo Nino and disappeared. He never came back for his truck, and there are bad people asking for him. Amelia, I'm telling you straight: don't look for him.

"I can't do that. He's my dad."

"Yes, and he's also a man with more debt than soul. It's your decision."

She hung up.

Amelia closed her eyes. Isabelita was asleep now, but her breathing was still labored. She wet a rag and put it on her forehead. Her fever wasn't going down. She had to get something for her. Food. Medicine. Anything.

And she had to go back to work that same night.

Luciano's image appeared, unwillingly. His ironed suit. His clean shoes on the marble floor she was mopping. His voice laden with contempt. But also, that fleeting glance... something had broken in him for a second.

Had he really seen her? Or had he only seen the maid who dared to cross the carpet?

It didn't matter.

Amelia stood up. She stared at the almost full bucket under the leak. The rain continued to fall, drop by drop, like a clock marking the pace of its defeat.

But she wouldn't give up.

She had a sister who cried silently, a father who fled like a shadow, and a world that reminded her every day that she was worth less than a stained rug.

And yet, she would return to the mansion tomorrow.

Because sometimes, dignity is swallowed like stale bread with salt.

Because surviving is also a form of resistance.

Later that night, while Isabelita slept shivering, Amelia went out into the yard. The ground was damp, her sandals sticking to the mud. She took out her cell phone, which barely had a signal, and dialed.

"Mauricio?"

"Amelia? Where are you?"

"At home. I need to know if you know anything else."

A silence on the other end. Long. Tense.

"You shouldn't be there. It's getting ugly."

"What did my father do?"

"He let dangerous people down. Very dangerous. It's not just a debt. It's something more. Something he didn't want to tell me. But if he got involved with those people... you and your sister are in danger."

Amelia's heart stopped for a second.

"Who are they?"

"Not on the phone. Just... be careful. And if you see anyone strange, don't open the door."

The call cut off.

Amelia stood with her cell phone shaking in her hand.

The night suddenly grew colder. The wind blew from the north, carrying debris and threats. The dripping rain followed its rhythm. Tick. Tick. Tick.

Amelia looked up at the overcast sky.

She had no one else.

Only Isabelita.

Only her hands.

And a will that had yet to break.

Tomorrow she would return to the mansion. She would swallow her pride. Mop in hand, invisible smile. She would look again at that man with cold eyes, who treated her as if she were worthless.

And she would keep going.

Because she couldn't fall.

Because her sister depended on her.

Because love, even if it was poor, didn't give up.