“The defendant, Patricia Gomez, systematically administered abortifacients under the guise of familial care,” the prosecutor announced, his voice echoing.
I looked at my mother. She was weeping silently, her face buried in my father’s shoulder. To lose a sister and a daughter’s trust in the same breath was a wound that hadn’t begun to scab. My father’s eyes were fixed on the judge, his jaw set so tight I thought his teeth might break. He had spent the last year working double shifts at the warehouse to pay for the lawyers, determined that justice wouldn’t be another thing the wealthy could buy.
When it was my turn to speak, I didn’t look at the judge. I looked at the back of the room, where Lucia sat. She had become my shadow, my mentor, and my strength.
“Valeria,” the defense attorney said, standing up. He was a man with a silver tongue and a shark’s smile. “Isn’t it true that you were overwhelmed? That you told your aunt you didn’t want this baby?”
“No,” I said, my voice surprisingly steady. “I told her I was scared. There is a difference between being afraid and being a murderer.”
