Her husband and children were her whole world. I turned over in bed, forcing myself to stop thinking. Perhaps tomorrow, when I spoke with Lucía alone, I would see a more authentic side of her life. Outside, the moon shone with a cold light. I closed my eyes, but I could still hear the almost imperceptible clinking of the children’s silverware against plates during dinner. A learned silence. The next morning, I was awakened by a very faint but rhythmic noise.
It was 6:30, and the sound was coming from the kitchen. I got up and carefully opened the door. The hallway was silent, and the living room was empty. I saw a light on in the kitchen and heard the deliberately soft clatter of plates. I went over and saw Lucía, already dressed and wearing her apron, preparing breakfast. There were porcelain plates on the counter, and she was cutting fruit. Each piece was almost identical to the last. Oatmeal was cooking in a small saucepan, and eggs with bacon were frying in another.
Once I was up, I asked her in a low voice. She seemed startled. She stopped cutting and turned to me with a smile. “Sorry, did I wake you?” “It’s a habit. Marcos and the children have breakfast at 7. Then he goes to work and the two older ones go to school.” “I’ll help you,” I said, going into the kitchen. “No, no, you go get ready, this is almost done,” she replied quickly, quickening her movements. Seeing how busy she was, I didn’t insist and went back to my room.
When I came out, the table was already set. Breakfast served individually to each of us: a fried egg with bacon and grilled tomato, a couple of slices of whole-wheat toast, a bowl of oatmeal, and a plate of perfectly cut fruit. The children were already sitting quietly in their places. Marcos had also come downstairs, wearing an impeccable shirt and suit, his hair perfectly combed. “Good morning, Sofia. Did you sleep well?” he greeted me with a nod.
Very well, thank you. Sit down. Don’t be shy. She sat at the head of the table. Breakfast passed in almost complete silence, broken only by the clinking of cutlery and chewing. Marcos read the news on his phone and occasionally asked his eldest son a question about school. The boy answered briefly and clearly. Lucía barely ate. She kept helping the youngest, wiping his mouth and cutting his bread into small pieces.
“I have a business dinner tonight, so I probably won’t be coming for dinner,” Marcos said, wiping his mouth with his napkin as he finished speaking. “Okay, fine,” Lucía agreed. “Take the opportunity to show Sofía around the city.” He stood up and picked up his briefcase. Lucía immediately went over to help him put on his coat. “Oh, by the way,” Marcos said from the doorway, as if he had just remembered. He turned to Lucía. “Don’t touch the blue folder on my desk. I need it for tomorrow.” His tone was neutral, but Lucía’s body tensed almost imperceptibly.
“I won’t touch her, don’t worry,” she replied instantly. Marcos gave me another nod and left. The moment the door closed, I felt not only Lucía, but all four children, let out an almost inaudible sigh of relief. The youngest even cracked a smile, but quickly suppressed it under his older brother’s gaze. “Mom, can we talk now?” the oldest asked quietly, in Spanish. Quietly, yes, Lucía smiled, starting to clear the table.
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