And in her own way, she had tried to heal with me something she could never repair with Tomás.
The Children Arrive
The next day her children arrived.
Two well-dressed men in expensive suits and a woman wearing dark sunglasses despite the fact that we were indoors, all of them in a hurry, the air around them heavy with the scent of expensive perfume and annoyance at having their lives interrupted.
As soon as they saw me inside the house, one of them—the eldest son—asked with suspicion:
“And who are you?”
“Diego. I helped her. I took care of your mother.”
They didn’t even say thank you.
They didn’t ask about her final days or whether she had been in pain or what her last words had been. They simply started checking drawers, opening furniture, talking among themselves about selling the house, about “settling this matter quickly,” and about how much the cheapest funeral would cost—comparing prices like they were discussing a commodity.
