I told him, although a tinge of unease had already lodged in me. Iván sighed, and his voice was now a mixture of bewilderment and firmness.
“Mom, I just went down to the passenger cabin to check if it’s her. She’s sitting in first class next to a man who looks very rich and elegant. They were talking very closely, as if they were a couple.”
Iván’s words were like a st:ab wound. I froze, clutching the phone receiver in my head, spinning around as if they were a couple. Impossible. I had just heard Araceli’s voice from the floor above. I had just seen her in the flesh in this very house.
But just at that moment, the sound of water in the bathroom stopped. The door on the fourth floor was heard opening, and Araceli’s voice came down the stairs.
Softly, but loud enough to make me jump.
“Mom! Who’s speaking?”, she panicked.
My heart was pounding so hard I felt like it was going to jump out of my chest. I quickly answered a friend’s call, my voice shaking, and I quickly ran into the living room to avoid Araceli’s gaze, who was peeking her head out of the stairs, her hair still dripping wet.
I closed the door and whispered into the phone, trying not to let my nervousness show.
“Iván, I just heard Araceli. She’s here. She just showered. Are you sure you didn’t make a mistake?”
On the other end, Iván fell silent again, then his voice grew harsher.
“Mom, it’s impossible. I have her right in front of me on this plane. I can see her clearly.”
I remained silent, my mind blank. I hung up the phone, my hands shaking so much I almost dropped the receiver.
The living room suddenly felt stifling, even though the sun was shining brightly outside. I sank into the armchair, trying to breathe deeply, but my chest felt tight with an unanswered question.
If Araceli was here? Who was the woman on Iván’s flight? What if the woman on the flight was Araceli?
Who was the person in my house?
A few minutes later, Araceli came down to the kitchen.
“Mom, I’m going to the market early today. Do you want me to get you some vegetables or something?” Her voice was kind, familiar, as if nothing out of the ordinary was happening.
I looked at her, trying to force a smile, but inside, I felt as if I were carrying stones.
“Yes, get some tomatoes, please,” I answered, my throat dry.
Araceli picked up her palm basket and left the house.
I stood there, watching her leave, my soul reeling. I didn’t believe Iván was lying to me. My son had no reason to make up such a story. He’s always been an upright boy, very sensitive and loving to his family.
But Araceli, the daughter-in-law I’ve lived with for so many years, was also standing before me. Flesh and blood. Unmistakable.
I asked myself. Had I missed something? Was there a secret in this house that I, an old woman, had never noticed?
I sat silently in the living room as the midday light filtered through the curtains, casting faint swathes of light on the tile floor.
The old armchair where I always sit, knitting or reading stories to Mateo. Now it also seemed heavier. Iván’s call kept echoing in my head. Each of his words was like a hammer blow to my heart. I looked around the room where the family photos of Esteban and Araceli hung on their wedding day.
Mateo, a newborn, and Iván’s radiant smile when he first put on his pilot’s uniform. All those memories now seemed covered in a hazy mist, blurred and filled with doubt.
I am Estela Márquez, a 65-year-old widow living in a quiet, middle-class neighborhood in Mexico City.
My husband, Don Rafael, passed away ten years ago, leaving me with two children I love more than life itself. Esteban, the oldest, is a hardworking architect, always immersed in his plans and projects. Iván, the youngest, is my pride and joy for making his dream of becoming a pilot come true. My life revolves around Esteban’s small family, my daughter-in-law Araceli, my grandson Mateo.
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