Carmen made a sound that might have been a sob or a laugh collapsing. "I am so sorry. God, Elena, I am so sorry. I was going to tell you. I kept writing the words and deleting them. Papa keeps asking for you. Every visit. He says your name like he is practicing for a test he cannot afford to fail."
"How long?" Elena asked.
"The doctors said three months six weeks ago. He is weaker now. He asks if you still make the plantains the way Mama did. He asks if Sofia still likes dinosaurs. Marco showed him a picture on his phone once. Papa cried."
Elena leaned against the counter. The gray cardigan felt suddenly too thin for the weather inside her.
"Marco showed him a picture of my daughter," she said, "and I did not know my father was dying."
"That is on me," Carmen said quickly. "All of it. I begged him not to tell you until I could stand in front of you without shaking. I was selfish. I was scared you would hang up. I was scared you would say I had already killed him once and I should not get near him again."
Elena closed her eyes. The old accusation lived in her throat like a stone she had polished for years. She had said versions of it to therapists and to empty rooms and once, drunkenly, to Marco on their anniversary when grief made her mean. She had never said it to Carmen's face after the hospital. She had simply stopped answering.