“Can I help you?” the man asked, wiping his hands on his pants as he looked at me with suspicion.
It took me a moment to respond.
For illustration purposes only
My mouth was dry.
My feet throbbed from the long walk.
My heart pounded like it wanted to escape without me.
“My family used to live here,” I finally said. “This was the Morales’ house.”
The man frowned.
He glanced toward the door.
Then at the children playing in the yard.
Then back at me, the way you look at someone who might cause trouble.
—We bought it eight years ago —he replied—. From a lady named Elvira Morales.
My mother.
Something inside me loosened all at once.
Not because the house was gone.
Deep down, I had already known that.
But because she sold it while I was locked away.
Without telling me.
Without leaving me anything.
Without waiting for me to come back.
“Are you sure this is the place?” he asked, more coldly now.
I pulled the wrinkled photo of my grandfather from the clear bag.
My hands trembled as I showed it to him.
—I grew up here. My grandfather planted that tree when I was nine years old.
The man studied the picture.
His expression softened slightly, but not enough to invite me in.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “There’s nothing I can do.”
I nodded, as if I still had any pride left to protect.
I turned away before he could see I was about to break
Leave a Comment