I never thought a small lie would turn into an avalanche, but that was precisely what this was, an avalanche of people following me uphill for a pilgrimage. I’d tried to stop this sham weeks ago by telling my mom that I wasn’t really sure it had been a real apparition or a dream, but Mamita argued that it couldn’t have been a dream because I was wide awake when she came into the room, and I’d never been a sleepwalker.

“Besides,” she said, filling her hair with pins to curl it, “everyone knows the Virgin transmits her message only through those with a pure soul. You just have to be receptive to it. Don’t be afraid. This is the best thing that will ever happen to you. Moreover, I already told Padre Elodio and all my friends at the Cofradía. The entire town has been elated thanks to this miracle. It’s too late to change our story.”

A story. That was exactly what this was, a pathetic story meant to cover up a forbidden friendship. But I was shocked to see that my mother went along with it with such enthusiasm, that she didn’t care at all about the truth. Or did she think that if she believed my lie and shared it enough times it would become true? This may very well be the most exciting event of her life. I’d never seen her so happy—whistling in every corner of the house—busy with friends and activities. It had been a boost to her social life. For once, she wasn’t walking behind my father, but in front of him. At parties or outside of church, people would stop her and ask to meet me. I lowered my face, such was my shame, but they all took it as humility. My father, at first, ignored the whole thing. But as the story grew and Father Elodio paid us an official visit, my father started to believe the lie, too. He would stare at me from across the dining table questioningly. Even though he’d always called himself an agnostic (a word that, according to my mother, meant that Satan himself had managed to convince the person that God didn’t exist), I saw him picking up the Bible a couple of times after the priest’s visit.

For the first time in years, Angélica showed interest in me again. She let me comb her dolls’ tresses and lent me her favorite bows to wear to church. Sometimes I caught her staring at me with near reverence. My brother, Alberto, wasn’t too delighted about our family’s sudden notoriety and even attempted to get a confession out of me, but I didn’t dare tell him the truth. Honestly, I was more nervous at my mother’s reaction than the Roman Catholic Church’s and all its congregation.