He was 40 years old at that time. Single, he worked at a technology company with a reasonable salary, nothing extraordinary. He lived in a reputed apartment in the west of the city.
After the funeral. I sat down with the lawyer, Licenciado Augusto Ramírez, a 70-year-old man who had known Osvaldo since we were young.
“Doña Breda, I’m going to speak directly to you,” she said as she opened a thick folder. “The estate your husband left behind is considerable.”
Considerable was a euphemism. The factory, with more than 35 years of operation, was valued at 1 million 200,000 pesos.
The house where we lived, which Osvaldo had finished paying for 20 years ago and which he completely remodeled 5 years ago, was valued at 2,890,000 pesos.
We had a two-bedroom apartment in the Narbarte neighborhood that generated 12,500 pesos per month.
The investments in financial instruments totaled 900,000 pesos and also a small plot of land in the interior of the State of Mexico, inherited from Osvaldo’s parents, valued at 210,000 pesos.
Total: 5,200,000es.
I froze, staring at those figures. And there’s more, continued the lawyer Augusto, pushing a sealed envelope towards me.
Osvaldo’s will is very clear, you can open it now. But he asked that I wait for the right moment to show it to Enrique.
I opened the envelope with trembling hands. Osvaldo’s handwriting was there, as firm as ever.
Breda, my love, if you are reading this it’s because I’ve already left. I leave everything in your hands because I trust you as I have trusted no one.
Enrique will receive his share when he is ready, or when he reaches a certain age, or when he gets married, or when he demonstrates the maturity to value what we built with sacrifice.
You’ll know when that moment arrives. Until then, protect our legacy and protect yourself too. Not everyone who says they love truly loves. Yours forever, Osvaldo.
I folded the letter and put it in the bottom of my bag. I decided not to tell Enrique anything. Not yet.
I continued living in the same house, with the same car, the same routine. The factory remained under the administration of a trusted manager that Osvaldo had trained for years.
The profits arrived in my account every month, around 18,000 pesos, but I remained discreet. I spent little and invested the rest. Enrique asked.
I knew I was living on your father’s pension and maybe some savings. He offered me financial help a couple of times and I refused it out of politeness. I’m fine, son, don’t worry.
I believed I was doing the right thing, protecting the legacy until my son was ready to receive it.
But then, six months after the burial, Enrique appeared at my house one Sunday afternoon. He was different, smiling too much. That kind of silly smile that a man in love has.
Mom, I need to introduce you to someone.
I opened the door and saw a blonde woman. Tanned, artificial, with 15 cm heels, a dress too tight for a Sunday afternoon. She couldn’t have been more than 30 years old at most.
Red fake nails, heavy makeup and a shine in the eyes that I couldn’t decipher at that moment.
“Hello, mother-in-law,” she said in a high-pitched voice, extending her hand full of scabs. “I’m Jimena. Please. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
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