Except for my visits and those of his older brother Luis, Juan lived practically alone in Uncle Jorge’s gloomy apartment. His mother came to see him at first, but she soon died. I remember her well: she came dressed in her factory uniform, and sometimes her fingernails were dirty. She had even offered to work in the house as a maid so she could be near her son. She looked so sad. Her hair was cut short and neat. Her size was impressive, and so was Juan’s father’s, whom I only saw once. They were Swedish immigrants from Misiones, workers on the yerba plantations who had left their town because it had no resources to medically treat someone as sick as Juan. The father acceded to my uncle’s deal and handed Juan over in exchange for a lot of money, but the mother didn’t give up, and on every visit she would ask, please, when were they going to let her live with her son again. I heard her crying and I felt bad for her, but I didn’t want her to take Juan away. I asked my uncle not to return him and he told me: Don’t worry.

In any case, I never imagined what Mercedes, my mother, was going to do. I’ve had enough of this woman, she said one day, and soon after that we learned Juan’s mother was sick: she died in a matter of weeks from a sudden and terminal cancer. Juan’s brother Luis informed us of his mother’s illness and death. The father had already disavowed his son by then. That man wanted to get rid of his sick son because he was expensive. Luis, on the other hand, came to visit every weekend, and whenever he could he took Juan out for walks or to swim, listening closely to my uncle’s instructions about what he could and couldn’t do. My mother used to make him wait on the landing, and sometimes, if it was raining, she would ask the doorman not to let him inside. One time Luis shot my mother a murderous look, heavy with the hatred of generations, and then I loved him eternally. I’m going to help you, I promised him when he brought Juan back that day, I won’t let her separate you. I was just saying it, because I never had and never will have any power over my mother. If she didn’t kill Luis, it was because she didn’t want to or because she was bored or because she didn’t think he was a danger.