When I again visited Gus today—for he wanted me to call him "Gus" now, and not Javier—I brought along Silvia, since he'd said he wanted to see his little niece. The first time I think I ever saw a truly warm smile alight in his eyes, at least since we were children in Chile, was when Silvia came running up to him. He lifted her onto his knee and spoke to her gently before sending her off to play. After that, he had so many questions for me, wanting to know everything that had happened to me since we were separated. It was a long and painful story, but I responded willingly: happy, in a way, to finally be able to tell it to someone. And not just to someone: to the person I had missed the most all these years. Often, as I related my experiences, the lines of Gus's face deepened with pain and anger—only rarely did his eyes soften with sadness, though when they did, I felt it pierce straight through my heart.

When I was done telling my story, I began to ask Gus questions. However, I quickly found out he was not as open as I was. When I asked how he had come by his striking wealth, he gestured vaguely around the room and replied, "All this...the means by which I came by this would break your heart, my dear sister, and I will spare you those details. I would give it all to you in a breath, but I see you have grown into the sort of person who would not accept it, if you knew. No, rather, I will take you out of work at the laundromat and find you a more suitable job. I will assist you solely with profits from my restaurant, Los Pollos Hermanos—only honest profits. Only with what, I hope, your conscience would be comfortable with."

"But Javier," I said (I had not quite accepted having to call him "Gus"), "I have told you everything about my life and have not hidden anything. Why won't you extend the same trust to me?"

"For your happiness...for your safety...you must not know," Gus replied, "I would rather you knew me as you remember me."

But the fact is, he's not as I remember him, secrets or no secrets. As I write this in the moments before bed, I can feel tears dampening my cheeks. What killed you, Javier? Did you die all at once, when those men murdered our family, or did you die slowly, over time?