Sofia isn’t a stranger, she can stay. With that, she opened the door and left. Lucia stood there motionless. I went over to put a hand on her shoulder, but she recoiled as if she’d been electrocuted. “I have to go get everything ready,” she said, her head down, and went to the kitchen. She began cleaning and tidying frantically, as if she wanted to pour all her anxiety into the housework. Seeing her hunched back, that feeling of unease I had intensified.
This man, Marcos, and this seemingly perfect family—how much repression and control lay hidden behind them. Her parents were coming that night. What else could possibly happen? All day long, Lucía was in a state of high tension. She was like a soldier preparing for an inspection. She cleaned the house from top to bottom, every corner, even though it was already spotless. She checked the dinner menu over and over, calculating the timings so there wouldn’t be the slightest mistake. She made the children put on their best clothes and rehearse again and again how they should greet their grandparents.
The air in the house had become thick and breathable. “You don’t have to be so nervous,” I tried to comfort her. “It’s just a family dinner.” “It’s not the same,” Lucía replied without looking up, as she scrubbed a countertop that was already gleaming. “Marco’s parents are very particular. I have to do everything perfectly.” She paused, her voice trailing off. “They’ve always thought Marcos could have married someone better. I can’t give them any reason to complain.”
Seeing her hunched back and pursed lips, I swallowed my words. Some thorns, if left unpunished, dig deeper and deeper, but to remove them, one must choose the right moment and method. In the afternoon, Lucía went into the kitchen. I offered to help her, and this time she didn’t refuse. Perhaps the company cheered her up, or perhaps she truly needed help. She prepared a traditional Spanish dinner: roast lamb, Iberian ham, Russian salad, and seafood soup for starters, and Santiago cake for dessert.
The presentation was restaurant-worthy. Marcos’s parents, who are very traditional, love these dishes, she explained, beads of sweat glistening on her forehead. At 6 o’clock sharp, the doorbell rang. Lucía jumped, quickly took off her apron, smoothed her hair, and after taking a deep breath, put on a perfect smile and went to open the door. An elderly couple entered. The gray-haired man stood as upright as Marcos. He wore a cashmere sweater and his expression was serious, with a penetrating gaze that scanned you from head to toe with an air of superiority.
The woman, equally elegant, with perfectly styled silver hair and understated makeup, had droopy corners of her lips and a critical gaze that betrayed her difficult nature. They were Marcos’s parents, Mr. and Mrs. Sánchez. “Dad, Mom, welcome,” Marcos said, greeting them with two kisses on the cheeks. His tone was more respectful than usual. Mr. Sánchez responded with a curt gesture, scanning the room and finally settling on Lucía.
Is dinner ready? Yes, Dad. We can sit down whenever you’re ready, Lucía replied in an even more submissive voice. Mrs. Sánchez’s gaze fell upon me, openly analyzing me. She’s a friend of Lucía’s from China. Sofía introduced her, Marcos, in a neutral tone. “Ah, a guest,” Mrs. Sánchez nodded in greeting. Her gaze immediately shifted to the children, and only then did her face show a hint of warmth. She said something to them in Spanish, and the children approached to greet her politely.
In return, they received a distant pat and a couple of brief compliments. Dinner began. At the long table, Mr. Sánchez sat at the head with Marcos to his right and his wife to his left. Lucía and I sat opposite, and the children at the other end. The atmosphere was even more tense than when only Marcos was present. During dinner, the conversation was mainly between Mr. Sánchez and Marcos in rapid Spanish about company matters, the economic situation, and names I didn’t recognize.
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