I pressed my cold, calculating hand and at that same moment, without consciously knowing it, something inside me shuddered, because I had just met the person who would try to destroy everything that Osvaldo and I had built.
The question I didn’t know how to answer that Sunday afternoon was who she really was and why my son, always so sensible, was completely blind to the danger that had just crossed the door of our lives.
Jimena entered my living room as if she already owned the place. She didn’t take off her heels, nor did she ask if she could sit down; she simply plopped down on the three-seater sofa that Osvaldo and I had bought 15 years ago.
He crossed his legs and began to examine every corner of the house with those hawk-like eyes.
“What a captivating house, Doña Breda,” he said. But the tone didn’t match the words. Very vintage, right? These old things have a secular value that can’t be paid for.
Vintage. I call my house vintage.
Enrique was radiant, sitting by his side like an obedient dog. He held his hand with that protective gesture that tightened my chest. My son had been involved in many relationships.
He was shy, focused on work, and suddenly he appeared with a woman who looked like she’d stepped out of a reality TV show.
“Mom, Simepa is a digital influencer,” Enrique proudly announced. She has over 28,000 followers on Instagram.
Simepa let out a little giggle and waved, feigning modesty, but I saw the gleam of satisfaction in her eyes. “Oh, love, it’s nothing,” she said. “I only share a little bit of my routine, fashion, travel, that kind of thing.”
She gave me a calculated look. “Do you have Instagram, Ms. Breda?”
“No, daughter, I don’t have the patience for those technologies,” I imagine.
He smiled. “Your generation didn’t grow up with that, did it? It must be difficult to keep up with the new generations.”
There was the first barb. Subtle and accurate.
I served coffee and some corn on the cob that I had prepared that morning. Simea took a small piece, gave it an almost symbolic bite and left the rest on the plate.
“How delicious, mother-in-law! But I can’t overdo it,” he said, patting his flat stomach. “I have to watch my figure. No, I work with my image.”
While we were talking, I noticed something strange. Jimena couldn’t stay still. Her eyes wandered. She looked at the clock next to the wall, the bookcase, the family photographs, and, above all, the mahogany desk that was in a corner of the room.
“Epriqυe told me that Mr. Osvaldo had his own business.” “No?” he asked with apparent naturalness while checking his cell phone.
It wasn’t a workshop, it was an auto parts factory. I corrected myself.
Oh, how cool. One of those little handmade ones, he said.
Craftsmanship peqυeñita. And υп bυeп business. I replied dry.
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