I’m talking about camaraderie, respect, decisiveness. And from what I’m seeing here, you already have that. I looked back at Don Lorenzo. He was looking at me in that way of his, still, waiting, not pressuring, just waiting.
“I’ll let you think,” said the father, mounting the mule, “but don’t take too long. Your son went to church yesterday, Doña Teresa, and he’s been stirring things up, saying you stole from him, that there’s money hidden here.”
He’ll be back, and next time he won’t come with just four men. And he left, leaving a heavy silence in the air. Don Lorenzo and I stood there, speechless.
The sun beat down, the cicadas sang loudly, the world kept turning as if nothing had happened, but everything had changed. He was the one who spoke first. “Doña Teresa,” he began, then stopped, searching for the words.
I don’t want you to feel obligated to anything. If you want me to leave, I’ll do so without resentment, without anger. And Jacinto, I asked, what will you do to me when you leave? Don Lorenzo remained silent.
“He’s going to kill me,” I answered for him. “Or worse, he’s going to take me back, lock me up, and leave me to rot until I die, and he’s going to keep everything that’s mine.”
“Then we have to think of something,” he said. “We already have,” I said, looking him in the eye. “The priest said so, but I don’t want her to marry me out of obligation,” said Don Lorenzo, his voice low but firm.
I don’t want him to look at me in 10 years and regret it. I don’t want to be another prison in his life. I approached him slowly and for the first time touched his arm.
His skin was rough, calloused, full of scars, the hands of a worker, the hands of an honest man. Lorenzo Batista, I said with a firm voice. Now I’ve spent 42 years married to a man I loved.
I had three children. I was a mother, I was a wife, I was everything I was told to be, and in the end, I was thrown out on the street like an old dog. Now I don’t want youthful love, I don’t want pretty promises, I don’t want embellished lies. I held his face in both hands.
I want companionship, I want respect, I want someone who will stay when things get tough, someone who won’t run away, someone who will look at me and see a person. And I see all of that in you.
So if you’re asking me if I accept your proposal, the answer is yes. Not out of obligation, but by my own choice, mine alone. His eyes glistened with tears. He held my hands in his own, large, calloused, warm hands.
“So, yes,” she said, her voice trembling, “we got married.” The wedding was on a Thursday. In the little village church. There was no party, no white dress, nothing like what I had in my first marriage.
It was just me, him, his father, and two witnesses he’d arranged. I wore my best dress, the only one that wasn’t mended. Don Lorenzo washed his face, combed his hair, and put on a clean shirt.
When the priest asked if I accepted, my voice didn’t tremble. I accept. When he asked him, Don Lorenzo looked me in the eye and said, I accept. And that was it. Two old men, two widowers, two outcasts.
They became one, not out of passion, not out of necessity, but by choice, and that was worth more than anything. We walked home hand in hand. For the first time in months, I felt light.
I wasn’t happy yet, but I felt light, as if some of the weight had been lifted from my shoulders. That night we sat on the porch. The moon was a waxing crescent, thin and white.
The crickets were chirping, the wind was warm. “Lorenzo,” I called softly. “What’s wrong? I have to show you something.” He looked at me curiously. I got up, went inside the house, and came back with one of the sacks of coins we had hidden inside.
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