And the peaceful days in this house. Araceli, my daughter-in-law, was always the perfect model in my eyes. She was beautiful, hardworking, always impeccable. From the way she dressed to the way she cared for Mateo.
I thought how lucky I was to have a daughter-in-law like her. After Araceli left for the market, I sat there, unconsciously clutching the edge of the tablecloth. Iván’s call made me revisit small details that had previously seemed normal.
There were days when Araceli would leave the house saying she was going to the market or to see a friend, but when she returned, she seemed like a different person. One day she was all sweetness, hugging Mateo and singing him to sleep. But other days she was in a bad mood and yelled at me just because I forgot to put the salt shaker back.
I used to think it was just the mood swings of a young woman. But now I wasn’t so sure. My heart was in knots, as if someone were stirring up all the memories I treasured so dearly. I remember once, a few months ago, Araceli picked up a pen to write the grocery list with her right hand.
Her handwriting was very straight and careful, but the next day I saw her using her left hand, and she was writing with more scrawls as if she weren’t used to it. I asked her, “Since when do you write with your other hand, mija?” She laughed and quickly replied, “Oh, no more. I’m practicing for fun, Mom.”
I nodded without giving it any more importance, but now that detail had become a sharp object in my mind.
I was lost in my thoughts when I heard the door open.
Mateo came running in with his backpack, dancing on his back. He hugged me tightly, saying in his little sparrow voice, “Grandma. Today the teacher congratulated me because I drew so beautifully.”
I stroked her head, trying to smile, but I still felt a weight in my chest. Mateo sat down and took out his notebook to show me.
Grandma. Look, yesterday my mom helped me do my homework with her right hand, and her handwriting turned out really nice. But today he wrote with his left hand, and it came out uglier. The boy pointed to two pages in his notebook, one with neat handwriting and the other with crooked handwriting. I looked at the letters and felt my heart sink.
“Your mom must have been busy today. She must have been tired, and that’s why she wrote like that”, I told him, trying to hide my confusion.
But Mateo looked up with his innocent eyes. “Grandma, my mom is very strange. Some days she hugs me really, really tight, but other days she doesn’t even look at me.”
My grandson’s words were another stab in the back. I hugged him, trying to comfort him, but everything was starting to get tangled up in my head.
Just at that moment, the doorbell rang. I got up, opened the door, and saw Doña Remedios, my good neighbor, standing there with the plate Araceli had brought her the day before.
She smiled at me with that usual kind smile, but her eyes were filled with curiosity. “Estela, how lovely your daughter-in-law is.”
But yesterday I realized that she gave me the plate with her left hand, and according to what you told me, she’s right-handed, right? How strange. Or is it that she uses both hands?
I forced a smile and replied, “Maybe Remedios wants to come in for some tea.” She nodded and went in, but her comment stuck in my head like a thorn. It wasn’t just me; even the neighbors had noticed the difference. I poured her tea.
We chatted about anything and everything, but as soon as she left, I collapsed into the armchair with my hand on my chest.
I froze, feeling like the world was collapsing around me. That afternoon, I went out into the garden, watering can in hand, trying to make the water fall gently on the daisies I’ve tended for years. The sun was beginning to set. The shadows of the trees lengthened across the yard, but my soul couldn’t find peace.
Mateo’s words, Doña Remedios’s, and Iván’s firm voice on the phone continued to swirl around in my head like pebbles thrown into a calm lake, creating ripples that wouldn’t stop. I watered the plants, but my mind wasn’t there. I wondered, “Am I too old to notice
the strange things happening in my own house? Or have I deliberately turned a blind eye, wanting to believe in the happy family I always dreamed of?” Araceli returned from the market carrying her palm basket.
But what caught my attention was that she was holding it with her left hand. I remembered perfectly well that Araceli always used her right hand, from the way she held the knife to chop vegetables to the way she combed Mateo’s hair. I stood there, watching her put the basket on the kitchen table and quietly asked her, “What did you buy, Araceli?” My voice tried to sound natural, but inside, a wave of suspicion was growing.
She smiled and answered very politely. “Yes, Mom. I brought some tomatoes, cilantro, and a fresh fish. Tonight I’m going to prepare the grilled fish you like. Is that okay?”
Her voice was soft, as always, but I couldn’t help but notice her hands. Her left one? No, her right. I nodded and turned away, pretending to clear the table.
But my heart was pounding. Was I imagining things, or were these little details trying to tell me something? At dinner time, the whole family gathered at the table. Esteban was tired after a long day at work, but he still smiled at Mateo and asked him how school was going.
Araceli ate slowly, delicately, and even turned to Esteban to remind him of my love. Next week is Mateo’s parent-teacher meeting, so you can save the day. I looked at her trying to find the daughter-in-law I was so proud of, but in my head Ivan’s voice kept echoing.
She’s sitting in first class next to a man.
I bit my lip, trying to swallow my anguish, but it felt like a stone stuck in my throat. Just three days later, everything was different. Mateo dropped a glass of water during dinner, and water splashed all over the tablecloth. I quickly grabbed a rag to clean it up, laughing. “It’s okay, son. Just be more careful.” But Araceli, sitting across from him, suddenly frowned and said sharply.
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