At sixty-six, Mrs. Larisa arrived at the gynecologist’s office soe

Empty.
I cried.

Not for losing a non-existent child.

I cried for having talked to a disease for months, giving it affection because no one gave me anything else.

Dr. Salcedo was by my bed.

“It went well, Mrs. Morales. We’re waiting on the final result, but we arrived in time.”

“And my children?”

His gaze hardened.
“Outside.”

“Did they ask about me?”

He hesitated.

That was his answer.

“They asked when you would be able to sign papers.”

I closed my eyes.

A tear rolled down to my ear.

Adriana, the social worker, left a folder on the table.

“A neighbor of yours also came by. Mrs. Socorro. She says she has something for you.”

Mrs. Socorro was my lifelong neighbor. She sold quesadillas outside the metro station and knew more about the neighborhood than the entire community board. She entered with her shawl, a plastic bag, and eyes blazing.

“You stubborn old woman,” she said. “Why didn’t you tell me you were in that much pain?”

“I thought I was pregnant.”

“Oh, Larisa, even the Virgin wouldn’t pull off such strange miracles without a warning.”

I laughed, and the incision hurt.

Then she took a folder out of her bag.

“Your Ramon left me copies. He told me: ‘Socorro, if my children ever get clever, you get cleverer.’”

Inside were the original deeds, an old will, receipts for taxes and utilities, and a letter from my husband.

My Ramon.

I read it with trembling hands.

“Larisa, our children are ours, but that doesn’t mean they are good. If one day they want to make you feel useless to take the house, remember: we built this house, not them.”

I covered my mouth.

Ramon had seen it before I had.

A mother’s love had put blindfolds on me.

A husband’s love, from beyond the grave, took them off.

The next morning, my children entered the room with the faces of people at an administrative funeral.

Monica spoke first.

“Mom, we’ve talked. It’s best that when you get out, you stay with me for a few days.”

“No.”
Arthur sighed.

“You aren’t in a state to live alone.”
“I’ve lived alone since your father died. What I’m not in a state to do is live surrounded by vultures.”

Julian was offended.

“Mom, that’s an ugly thing to say.”

“Ugly was leaving me in pain for months and calling me crazy.”

Monica pressed her lips together.

“You were saying you were going to have a baby.”
“And you wanted to use that to take my house.”

No one breathed.

Adriana entered at that moment with a doctor and a hospital attorney.

“Mrs. Monica,” she said, “we have a copy of a notarized application to grant you broad power of attorney over your mother’s assets, accompanied by a statement where you affirm that Mrs. Morales suffers from persistent delusions.”

Monica turned pale.

Arthur stepped back.

“I didn’t know she had filed that.”

I looked at him.

“But you knew the papers existed.”

He lowered his head.

Julian sat down, as if his body suddenly felt heavy.

“Mom, I only signed as a witness. Monica said it was to take care of you.”

I laughed.

A bitter laugh.

“You were always good at obeying when it suited you.”

Monica regained her voice.

“We wanted to sell that house because it’s old! You don’t understand. You’re going to die there, alone, among saints and potted plants.”

The room went silent.

I looked at her for a long time.