Tomás, excuse me for butting in, but in the afternoons we hear a little girl screaming inside your house.
I stood in front of the gate with the keys in my hand, as if Doña Estela had thrown ice water in my face.
It was almost eight o'clock at night, I was coming back from a job in Tlalnepantla, my boots covered in dust and my back aching. The last thing I needed was a neighbor making up gossip.
"You must be mistaken, Doña Estela," I said, trying not to sound rude. "There's nobody in the house at that hour."
She didn't look down.
—Then you don't know what's going on in there.
That phrase stung me more than any insult.
