Mi hijo menor, que es piloto, me llamó. «Mamá, algo raro está pasando. Mi cuñada está en casa». «Sí», respondí. «Está en la ducha». Su voz se convirtió en un susurro. «Imposible, porque tengo su pasaporte en la mano. Acaba de embarcar en mi vuelo a Francia». En ese momento, oí pasos detrás de mí. «Me alegra que estés aquí».

Esta mañana, como cualquier otro día, tenía prisa por lavar los platos después del desayuno. Esteban, mi hijo mayor, se había ido temprano al trabajo, dejando la casa en silencio para mi nieto Mateo; a ese pequeño y listo diablillo de siete años también se lo había llevado el autobús escolar.

Y Araceli, mi nuera, la esposa de Esteban, acababa de subir las escaleras. Su suave voz llegó a mi madre. «Me voy a duchar. Sí». Asentí, sonriendo.

Apenas había terminado de preparar el último plato. Cuando sonó el teléfono fijo, me sequé las manos con el delantal y caminé rápidamente para atender la voz alegre y joven de Iván. Mi hijo menor llenó la fila.

Hearing his voice was like a hug for my heart. Iván is my pride, a young copilot always on the go, living the childhood dream of conquering the skies.

I smiled and asked him a few things about his flight, about how he was.

He laughed loudly and told me everything was going well, that work was going smoothly.

But suddenly his tone changed, as if hesitant to say anything. “Hey, Mom, something really weird happened. My sister-in-law is home.”

I was surprised. I looked toward the stairs where the running water in the bathroom could still be heard.

“Of course, son. Araceli is upstairs taking a shower.”, I answered very confidently.

Araceli had spoken to me less than ten minutes earlier and was wearing that white blouse she always wore around the house.

“How could I have been wrong?”

But on the other end of the line, Iván remained silent for a long time, so much so that I could even hear his breathing. Then his voice became very serious, full of astonishment.

“Mom, it’s impossible because I have her passport here in my hand. She just got on my flight to France.”

I started to laugh, thinking he must have been mistaken.

“Oh, son, you must have been mistaken her for someone else. I just saw Araceli. She even told me she was going to take a shower.”

I tried to explain calmly to calm him down, but he didn’t laugh.

He didn’t answer me like always. He told me in a slow voice, as if he were trying to organize the story in his head, that when all the passengers had boarded, he ran out to look for some papers he’d forgotten and by chance found a passport lying near the boarding gate.

At first, he thought about giving it to the airport staff, but when he opened it to see who it belonged to, he froze.

The photo was Araceli’s. Her name was there, clearly. There was no mistaking it.

My heart started beating faster, but I tried to remain calm. “Are you sure, Iván? That passport could belong to someone else.”

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