Her photos always featured her four angelic, mixed-race children and a corner of her luxurious villa in the background. She had become the role model all our old classmates envied. Married abroad, with an enviable financial situation, a brood of children, and a beauty that time seemed to respect. Meanwhile, I was still in Spain with a mediocre job at a mediocre company, a mediocre salary, and a couple of mediocre relationships. Now, about to turn 40, I was still single and childless.
I had some savings, but I was light years away from what’s considered successful. This trip through Europe wasn’t planned. A canceled project at work left me with an unexpected vacation and a bonus. On a whim, I bought the tickets. While planning the route, and without really knowing why, I added the small town outside Madrid where Lucía lived. I wanted to surprise her. We hadn’t seen each other for 15 years. With the address she’d given me years before, I dragged my suitcase along and, after several transfers, found the quiet residential area on the outskirts.
It was a housing development of detached houses with well-kept gardens. It looked nice, yes, but it wasn’t the mansion I’d imagined. I called the TAM (Telecommunicating Municipal Assistance Center). A blond, blue-eyed boy of about eight answered. He looked at me suspiciously and asked me something in Spanish with a foreign accent. I quickly replied in broken English that I was looking for Lucía. The boy turned and shouted, “Mom!” And then I saw her. Lucía, wearing an apron and with flour-covered hands, came running out of the house.
She froze in the doorway, staring at me for five seconds. Her eyes widened. Sofia, her voice high and shrill, was filled with disbelieving joy. The next second she threw herself at me and hugged me tightly. “Oh my God, is this really you? What are you doing here? Why didn’t you tell me?” I hugged her back just as tightly, feeling my eyes well up with tears. Fifteen years had left their mark on her face, but less than I expected.
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