But fear was stronger. “It’s nothing,” I lied. “It must be an opossum. Those creatures dig a lot.” Don Lorenzo looked at me for a long time. He knew I was lying, but he didn’t press the issue.
“Okay,” he said, “but if you need help, just say so.” He went back to work. I stood there, staring at the disturbed earth, feeling the weight of the lie crush my chest. And that night, for the first time, I wondered if keeping that secret wouldn’t end up killing me.
The house was finished on a Tuesday afternoon. Don Lorenzo nailed the last floorboard, cleaned his tools, and stood in the doorway, watching the work with his quiet demeanor.
The sun shone on the new eyebrows, making everything sparkle. The walls were sturdy, whitewashed. The door closed securely with its iron bolt and hinge. The small window let in light and air without letting in the cold night wind.
It wasn’t a palace, but it was a house, a real house. It turned out well, he said, more for himself than for me. I was leaning against the doorframe, my eyes burning with an emotion I couldn’t tell if it was joy or sadness, because that house, which had been handed over as a humiliation, now had dignity, and I didn’t know if I deserved that.
“Yes, it stayed,” I replied, my voice catching in my throat. Don Lorenzo took the tool sack and slung it over his shoulder. He looked at me with that tired but sincere look of his.
Then it’s paid for. If you need anything else, just send someone to call. I had set aside the money, bills I got by exchanging two coins with Don Malaquías, little by little, without raising much suspicion.
I gave him everything. Don Lorenzo counted, folded the bills, and put them in his pocket. “Thank you for the work,” he said, “and for the food.” It had been a long time since he’d had well-seasoned beans.
I gave him a half-smile. He took two steps toward the path, but then stopped. He stood with his back to me for a long time, as if he were thinking about something. When he turned around, his face was different—serious, worried.
Doña Teodora, I’m going to tell you something, and you don’t have to answer if you don’t want to. My heart sank. Speak. I know something’s wrong here. I don’t know what, but I know something’s wrong.
And I also know that you’re carrying this burden alone. You’ve taken another step closer. I’m not one to interfere where I’m not wanted, but if you ever truly need help, you can reach out to me.
I won’t judge, I won’t tell anyone, I’m just going to help. And that’s a promise. Her words hit me like a punch to the chest. It had been so long since anyone had offered real help, without any ulterior motives.
Without wanting anything in return, just help, pure and simple. I opened my mouth to speak, to tell everything, but fear was stronger. It always was. Thank you, Don Lorenzo, but I’m fine.
He held my gaze a little longer, then nodded slowly. God bless you then. And he left. I stood in the doorway watching him disappear around the bend in the road and felt such a profound emptiness that I almost yelled for him to come back.
But I didn’t scream; I let it go. And when the silence returned, heavy and absolute, I went inside and closed the door. The following weeks were the loneliest of my life.
The house was ready, even beautiful, but empty. I slept well for the first time in months, with no wind blowing through, no fear of snakes or insects, but I would wake up at midnight with the feeling that someone was outside watching, waiting.
Every night I checked the hoop, lifted the board, looked at the sacks, counted the coins, put everything back in its place, covered it with straw, prayed, slept, woke up, and started all over again. I went to town only twice, once to buy groceries, and once to exchange a few more coins.
Don Malaquías gave me that suspicious look of his, but changed his mind without asking much. He said he’d heard my house was turning out well. He said people were talking about it. Talking about what, I asked.
The blood ran cold. “You took money from somewhere,” he replied, wiping the counter with a dirty rag, “and Don Lorenzo Bautista spends a lot of time up there on his hill.”
I understood instantly. Small towns are gossipy and don’t forgive a change of heart. If the poor woman suddenly has money, if the widower spends time at home, the conclusion is always the same: dirty, malicious.
“People should mind their own business,” I replied curtly, grabbing the groceries. “I’m just letting you know, Doña Teodora. There are people saying you’re living in sin, and there are people who should wash their mouths out with soap before talking about others.” I left the store, my face burning with shame and anger.
I walked quickly, almost running, until I left the village. I only stopped when I reached the bridge. I sat down on a large rock near the riverbank and wept. I wept with rage, with exhaustion, with injustice, because it wasn’t enough to have been expelled from my home, humiliated, thrown into a shack.
Now, on top of everything, they were accusing me of something I hadn’t done. That’s when I heard the voice. Doña Teodora. I lifted my head, quickly wiping away my tears. It was Don Lorenzo. He was coming from his house, carrying a large hoe on his shoulder.
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