“Is everything alright?” he asked. His voice was full of concern. “Yes,” I lied, but my voice was trembling. He approached slowly, as if I were a frightened animal. He dropped the hoe to the ground and stood there, at a respectful distance.
“I heard what they’re saying in town,” she said quietly, “and I want you to know that I couldn’t care less. People who have nothing better to do make up lies to pass the time.”
“But it matters to you,” I replied. My voice came out harsher than I intended. “Because it tarnishes your name, too. My name has been tarnished for a long time now,” she said with a sad half-smile.
“An old widower, alone, childless, nearby. People already say I’m a weirdo. One more rumor won’t make a difference. I looked at his tired face, at his shoulders hunched from carrying so much weight, and I saw for the first time that he was just like me, discarded, forgotten, a survivor.
But it does make a difference to me, I said softly. He stayed still. Then he sat down on a rock on the other side of the stream, shortening the distance without invading my space.
Doña Teodora, I’m going to tell you something you may not want to hear, but you need to. Wait. You can’t live in hiding forever. You can’t live in fear of what others might think or say.
Because if you live like that, you’re not living, you’re just existing. And you deserve more than that. Her words resonated deeply with me because they were true. I was just existing, not living. Every day was just about survival, about getting food.
Water, secrecy, fear. And what do you think I should do? I asked, almost challenging him. He thought for a moment, then answered, trust. A simple word, but impossible. I don’t know if I can, I admitted. I know, he said, but when I’m ready, I’ll be here.
And we sat there on the rocks, listening to the sound of the running water until the sun began to set. All hell broke loose a week later. I was in the backyard hanging clothes on a makeshift clothesline when I heard the sound of horses—several horses.
My heart raced. I dropped the wet sheet and ran to the front of the house. Three men on horseback were arriving, and in the middle of them, mounted on a large black horse, was Jacinto.
The world stopped. I hadn’t seen my son for months, and he looked different—fatter, better clothes, a hat, new, he’d prospered. While I was stuck here. He dismounted slowly with that arrogant air I knew so well.
The other two men remained mounted, just watching. One of them had a rifle pressed between his legs. “Mother,” Jacinto said, his voice as cold as ice. I didn’t answer, I just stood in the doorway, my fists clenched, my whole body trembling.
“I came to see how you are.” He continued walking toward me. “Oh, the house is beautiful now. You got money to remodel.” My blood ran cold. I caught him working. I lied.
Working. He let out a humorless laugh. You’re 53 years old, Mother. What kind of work did you get that paid you for the carpenter and materials? I didn’t answer. He took another step. Now he was too close.
And I also heard that there’s a man coming here, Don Lorenzo Bautista. They’re saying in town that you’re living in sin with him. Shame and rage exploded inside me.
Isn’t that true? No. He crossed his arms. Then explain to me where the money came from. Explain to me why a widower spends so much time here. Explain to me why you, whom I left in a thatched hut, now live in a better house than mine.
The hatred in his eyes was real, pure, because deep down he hadn’t come for morality or religion, he had come out of envy. “This house is mine,” I said, my voice trembling but firm.
You gave it to me yourself, remember, so that it would die under a roof? I gave it to you so that you would die, not so that you would thrive. He spat out the words. The silence that followed was heavy as lead.
Then he gave me an ultimatum. Don Lorenzo Bautista is never coming back here. If he returns, I’ll come for you and take you back to the house. And you’ll stay locked up there until you die.
Did you understand? My whole body trembled with fear, rage, and helplessness. “Three days,” he said, mounting his horse. “I’ll be back in three days, and he can’t be here.” The three of them turned their horses and galloped off, kicking up red dust that hung in the air for a long time.
When the noise faded, my legs gave way. I sat down on the ground right there in front of the house and cried. I cried all the tears I had kept inside. I cried until I had no more tears left.
And as the sun began to set, painting the sky purple and red, I knew. It was time to trust or lose everything again. I waited until night had completely fallen before going out.
The moon was full, large and white, illuminating the dirt road as if it were daytime. The wind blew cold, carrying the scent of damp earth and grass. I was trembling, I don’t know if from the cold or from fear, perhaps both, but I had made my decision.
I wasn’t going to live another day carrying that weight alone. I walked the two leagues to the bridge. My legs ached, my heart pounded, and with every sound in the woods I stopped, my whole body tense, waiting.
But nothing happened. Just me, the moon, and the sound of my footsteps on the dry earth. When I arrived at Don Lorenzo’s house, there was light in the window, a dim oil lamp.
I stopped at the wooden gate. I took three deep breaths and knocked. The sound echoed in the silence of the night. Heavy footsteps approached. The gate opened. Don Lorenzo was standing there, holding the oil lamp aloft, his eyes wide with surprise.
“Doña Teresa, what happened? My voice came out weak, broken. I need to talk to you.” He didn’t hesitate. He opened the door completely and gestured for me to come in.
The house was simple but clean inside. A wooden table, two chairs, a hammock hanging in the corner, an unlit wood-burning stove. It smelled of stale coffee and sawdust.
“Sit down,” he said, pulling out a chair. “I’ll make you some coffee.” “It’s not necessary,” I said, but he was already lighting the fire. I sat down and stared at my hands trembling in my lap.
Don Lorenzo stirred the coffee silently, waiting for me to calm down. When it was ready, he poured it into two pewter cups and sat down opposite me. “Now tell me,” he said in a calm voice.
And I told, I told everything. The hoop, the hole, the sacks, the gold coins, the precious stones, the fear, the coins I exchanged, the renovation of the house, the footsteps I heard the first night, the disturbed earth.
And finally, I told him about Jacinto’s visit, the threats, the three-day deadline. When I finished, I remained silent, waiting—waiting for a trial, waiting for him to get up and throw me out, waiting for anything but what happened.
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