I am sixty-three years old. At this age you think you’ve seen enough of life to not be surprised by anything. I thought so too. I thought that after raising my daughter alone, burying my husband too young, and working all my life tirelessly, all I had left was a quiet old age, surrounded by love.
At least, that’s what I imagined.
From the outside, many people said that I was a lucky woman. My husband died early, yes, but my daughter Mariana came out well. She went to school, got a job in the city, and married a man who seemed responsible. Whenever someone in the village asked me about her, I replied with pride.
“My daughter lives in the capital. He’s doing well.”
He lived in a small house in a town in Oaxaca. It wasn’t big or fancy, but it was my home. Thirty years living within those walls make every corner have a memory. The lemon tree in the yard was planted by my husband the first year of marriage. We fixed the kitchen together when Mariana was still a child.
I was there all my life.
But Mariana insisted.
