Forty-five years of raising her, sacrificing myself for her, and she throws me away like garbage. But I took a deep breath and smiled because there was something my beloved daughter didn’t know. My name is Antonia, I’m 71 years old, and until that moment, I thought I knew my daughter. I had just become a widow six months earlier. Roberto, my husband, died of a heart attack while we were having breakfast together, as we had every morning for 45 years.
That morning, he had served me coffee ith milk and toast. As always, he had kissed me on the forehead and said, “Good morning, my love.” Those were his last words. Since then, Angela had been more present in my life. Or so I thought. She came to visit me three times a week. She helped me with funeral arrangements, and accompanied me to the market.”She even suggested I go to the doctor for a general checkup. Mom, you need to take better care of yourself now that you’re alone.” She told me with that smile that I thought was a sign of love, but now I understand was a sign of convenience. The beach house had been our refuge for years.
Roberto and I bought it when Ángela was 15, with great effort and sacrifice. Every summer we went there, made memories, celebrated birthdays, Christmases. Ángela brought her boyfriends, then Eduardo, her husband. I cooked for everyone, cleaned, and did laundry. It was our family tradition. I never thought she would see it only as money. And the car, that old Volkswagen that Roberto cared for like it was his son; he washed it every Sunday, changed the oil religiously, and always parked it on the same corner under the shade tree. Ángela knew what that car
meant to me. It was the last thing I had left of it. Its scent still permeated the seats. When she hung up the phone, I sat there in that uncomfortable green plastic chair, surrounded by other sick people, and for the first time in months, I didn’t cry.
Continued on the next page
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