Politics, politics, always politics. You swear that you are too busy at court to visit your son, but that is a lie. I know that you do not want to be seen with him. How many heirs has your supposed wife, Bella, produced? None, by my count, and I keep track. You think that I am beneath, and you may be right, but at least I had the courage to take care of your son rather than throw him out in the street, which many a night I yearned to do. Instead, I have raised him to be a good boy. He minds the house while I work in the shop.

Now, he's almost all grown up and the heir to your estate. And who do you have? An upper-class wife, who commandeers your money, wears a wig and parades around like a peacock, in spite of the fact she is as infertile as a donkey. I may envy your money and your masculinity, Vincente, but I do not envy you that.

Visit our son or not, he'll have your estate soon enough. May God comfort you during the endless winter of your fertility.



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