I heard him in the kitchen, talking on the phone in a low voice. His voice was pleading, and he sounded panicked, unlike anything I’d ever heard from him before. “Yes, yes, it’s my fault. I forgot to tell you, but my friend was just passing through. She’s only staying two nights. Please don’t be upset. The children are here.” On the other end of the line, I could hear a man’s voice, blurry but high-pitched.
Even from a distance, I could sense her coldness. Lucia’s voice grew even lower, almost a whisper. “I know the rules. I’ll clean the guest room again. I promise I won’t touch your office or the wine cellar. I’ll prepare a couple more dishes for dinner. No, they won’t burn.” She hung up the phone and, after taking a deep breath, turned to face me. Her face now wore the kind smile I knew, as if the submissive woman from a moment ago had been a hallucination.
“It’s nothing, Sofia. It was Marcos. He was just asking what we’d like for dinner.” She brushed a strand of hair aside. On her wrist, I saw a discreet red mark. I glanced at the four children behind her, huddled together. They were beautiful, like porcelain dolls, but unusually quiet. The little joy I felt at our reunion vanished suddenly. Something was wrong. The happiness radiating from my childhood friend, whom I’d known for 30 years, and the invisible tension hanging in this lovely house, were like a layer of perfectly whipped cream.
But what was hidden beneath the surface? My name is Sofia. Lucia is my best friend, one of those you grow up with. Fifteen years ago, right after graduating from university, she flew away like a happy little bird to a faraway country in Europe. She married a man who, according to her, was romantic and attentive. Our contact went from frequent video calls at first to occasional Christmas greetings, and in recent years it had dwindled to the photos she regularly posted on her social media.
Her photos always featured her four angelic, mixed-race children and a corner of her luxurious villa in the background. She had become the role model all our old classmates envied. Married abroad, with an enviable financial situation, a brood of children, and a beauty that time seemed to respect. Meanwhile, I was still in Spain with a mediocre job at a mediocre company, a mediocre salary, and a couple of mediocre relationships. Now, about to turn 40, I was still single and childless.
I had some savings, but I was light years away from what’s considered successful. This trip through Europe wasn’t planned. A canceled project at work left me with an unexpected vacation and a bonus. On a whim, I bought the tickets. While planning the route, and without really knowing why, I added the small town outside Madrid where Lucía lived. I wanted to surprise her. We hadn’t seen each other for 15 years. With the address she’d given me years before, I dragged my suitcase along and, after several transfers, found the quiet residential area on the outskirts.
It was a housing development of detached houses with well-kept gardens. It looked nice, yes, but it wasn’t the mansion I’d imagined. I called the TAM (Telecommunicating Municipal Assistance Center). A blond, blue-eyed boy of about eight answered. He looked at me suspiciously and asked me something in Spanish with a foreign accent. I quickly replied in broken English that I was looking for Lucía. The boy turned and shouted, “Mom!” And then I saw her. Lucía, wearing an apron and with flour-covered hands, came running out of the house.
She froze in the doorway, staring at me for five seconds. Her eyes widened. Sofia, her voice high and shrill, was filled with disbelieving joy. The next second she threw herself at me and hugged me tightly. “Oh my God, is this really you? What are you doing here? Why didn’t you tell me?” I hugged her back just as tightly, feeling my eyes well up with tears. Fifteen years had left their mark on her face, but less than I expected.
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