The silence in the principal’s office was no longer heavy; it was suffocating. It was the kind of silence that precedes a landslide—quiet, yet vibrating with the force of the destruction about to follow.
I stared at my phone screen, the words searing into my vision: “Your baby was not the first.”
My breath came in ragged hitches. I looked up and saw Aunt Patricia standing in the doorway. I hadn’t even noticed when she slipped into the room. She was leaning against the doorframe, her face a mask of practiced concern, but her eyes were fixed on the USB drive as if she could set it on fire with her gaze.
“Patricia?” my mother whispered, her voice cracking. “What is this? What does this mean?”
My aunt didn’t look at my mother. She looked at Mrs. Rebeca Rivas. A silent, terrifying communication passed between them—a look of failed conspirators.
