AnnaMaria
This morning, like any other day, I was rushing to wash the dishes after breakfast. Esteban, my oldest son, had left for work early, leaving the house silently for my grandson Mateo; that clever little seven-year-old devil had also been taken by the school bus.
And Araceli, my daughter-in-law, Esteban’s wife, had just come up the stairs. Her soft voice reached my mother. I’m going to take a shower. Yes. I nodded, smiling.
I had barely finished arranging the last plate. When the landline rang, I dried my hands on my apron and walked quickly to answer Iván’s cheerful, young voice. My youngest son filled the line.
“Mom, I’m just calling to say hello. I had a little free time during a layover at the airport.”
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.”
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.
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.
“Mateo, why are you so clumsy? Be more careful.” I stared at Esteban. He frowned back and said in a low voice. “Araceli, it was an accident. Nothing more.” She turned around, a spark of anger in her eyes. “You always defend him, and I’m left looking like the meanie.” The atmosphere at the table became tense.
Mateo lowered his head, his eyes filling with tears. I hugged him, feeling a deep pain. It had only been a few days. Araceli tenderly reminded him about school, and now he seemed like a completely different person. I sat next to him, watching silently, trying to put the pieces together in my head. Today
he was irritable. The other day he was a sweetheart. Today he used his left hand.
The other day his right. These small differences, one by one, accumulated in my mind, like pieces of a puzzle I still couldn’t see complete. I told myself I had to calm down, but every time I looked at Araceli, I saw a stranger, as if she weren’t the daughter-in-law I’d lived with for so many years.
A few days later, I took Mateo to school. He held my hand as we walked down the usual cobblestone street. Suddenly, he stopped, looked at me, and said in a sad voice, “Grandma.” Yesterday my mom taught me how to write. And she was very patient. Her handwriting turned out beautifully, but today she didn’t even want to look at my homework.
She told me to do it myself. I bent down to look into his pale little eyes and felt my heart sink. Your mom was busy. “My son, don’t be sad,” I said, but my voice was shaking. Mateo nodded, but his gaze was still filled with disappointment. I hugged him, feeling incredibly helpless. He’s only
seven years old.
How could I understand something I couldn’t even decipher? That night we sat down to dinner again. Suddenly, Araceli took a small notebook out of her bag and began to write something with her left hand. Esteban, who was serving himself food, suddenly laughed. “Hey. Since when do you write with your left hand?”
You look fine, weirdo. Araceli stopped dead in her tracks, a forced smile on her lips.
Oh, no more. I’m testing my love. She quickly put the notebook back in her bag, but I could see a flash of panic in her eyes. Esteban shook his head and said nothing more. But I knew he’d noticed something strange too.
I sat there, gripping the spoon, trying to keep a straight face, but inside, doubts grew like a slow fire. One morning, I took the empty spice jar and crossed the usual cobblestone street to go to Doña Remedios’s house. Araceli had borrowed it a few weeks earlier, saying it was to make the mole poblano that Esteban likes so much. I knocked on the door, and Doña Remedios opened the door with her usual friendly smile.
Estela, come in. Let me make you some coffee, she said, still holding a rag. I gave her the jar, intending to thank her and leave, but she pulled me to sit on a wooden chair in her kitchen. The atmosphere was warm, smelling of roasted coffee, but I couldn’t relax. Doña Remedioslooked at me with doubtful eyes and lowered her voice. Estela, don’t get angry about what I’m about to tell you.
Your daughter-in-law has changed her character. One day she greets me nicely, happily, and even asks about my children. But yesterday she stopped by. I signaled to her, and she didn’t even notice me, as if she didn’t know me. Doña Remedios’s words were like another stone in the troubled lake of my heart. I forced a smile and answered.
