Every time we spoke on the phone he told me the same thing:
“Mom, come live with us in Mexico City. I don’t like to think you’re alone over there.”
I always answered that it was fine. That he had neighbors, that he knew everyone, that the town was quiet. But she wouldn’t give up.
“Mom, we can also help you. Javier and I are going to give you ten thousand pesos a month. That way you don’t have to worry about anything.”
Ten thousand pesos.
In the village, with that amount you live without problems. He pays for electricity, buys food, even has enough to save some.
At first I refused several times. It wasn’t just the house. It was all it meant to leave her. The patio where my husband sat to drink coffee in the mornings. The chair where he would lie down after work.
But one day Mariana told me something that left me thinking all night.
“Mom… If something happens to you there, who’s going to help you?”
That question stuck in my head.
A month later I made the decision.
I sold the small piece of land behind the house. I left some money in the bank just in case. I put my clothes in two suitcases and closed the door of the house with a strange feeling in my chest.
I didn’t cry.
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