I heard him in the kitchen, talking on the phone in a low voice. His voice was pleading, and he sounded panicked, unlike anything I’d ever heard from him before. “Yes, yes, it’s my fault. I forgot to tell you, but my friend was just passing through. She’s only staying two nights. Please don’t be upset. The children are here.” On the other end of the line, I could hear a man’s voice, blurry but high-pitched.
Even from a distance, I could sense her coldness. Lucia’s voice grew even lower, almost a whisper. “I know the rules. I’ll clean the guest room again. I promise I won’t touch your office or the wine cellar. I’ll prepare a couple more dishes for dinner. No, they won’t burn.” She hung up the phone and, after taking a deep breath, turned to face me. Her face now wore the kind smile I knew, as if the submissive woman from a moment ago had been a hallucination.
“It’s nothing, Sofia. It was Marcos. He was just asking what we’d like for dinner.” She brushed a strand of hair aside. On her wrist, I saw a discreet red mark. I glanced at the four children behind her, huddled together. They were beautiful, like porcelain dolls, but unusually quiet. The little joy I felt at our reunion vanished suddenly. Something was wrong. The happiness radiating from my childhood friend, whom I’d known for 30 years, and the invisible tension hanging in this lovely house, were like a layer of perfectly whipped cream.
But what was hidden beneath the surface? My name is Sofia. Lucia is my best friend, one of those you grow up with. Fifteen years ago, right after graduating from university, she flew away like a happy little bird to a faraway country in Europe. She married a man who, according to her, was romantic and attentive. Our contact went from frequent video calls at first to occasional Christmas greetings, and in recent years it had dwindled to the photos she regularly posted on her social media.
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