The social worker entered minutes later. Her name was Adriana. She wore glasses, her hair was pulled back, and she had a patience that was not a weakness.
“Mrs. Morales, I need to ask you a few questions.”
“Ask them.”
“Do you know what day it is?”
I answered.
“Do you know where you are?”
I did.
“Do you know why you are going to have surgery?”
I swallowed hard.
“Because I don’t have a baby. I have something bad growing inside.”
Adriana touched my hand.
“You know more than many of the relatives outside.”
She lowered her voice.
“Have you signed any documents recently?”
I tried to remember.
Monica had visited me two weeks earlier. She brought me warm guava drink and sweet bread. She told me the government was updating paperwork for seniors, that they needed my signature to “have everything in order in case the baby was born.”
I felt grateful.
I signed three sheets.
I didn’t read them well.
My heart began to pound.
“My daughter brought me papers.”
Adriana didn’t change her expression, but she gripped her pen tighter.
“What papers?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you have a deed? Do you own your own home?”
I looked toward the door.
That was when I understood.
