The food got cold on the table.
The flan started to get watery.
The soda lost its fizz.
None of that mattered.
For several minutes, only the two of them existed, embraced in the kitchen of a rented house that no longer seemed like a prison, but a farewell.
“I’m an idiot,” Martin said through tears. “I accused you of horrible things.”
—Yes —Maribel replied, without sugarcoating it.
He looked at her, surprised.
She took a deep breath.
“Yes, you were unfair. Yes, it hurt. Yes, many nights I thought about giving up. I’m not made of stone, Martín.”
He lowered his head.
That was the hardest blow.
Not writing.
Not the land.
Not the plan.
It was understanding that Maribel was not a saint from a novel who endured without feeling.
She was a tired woman who had chosen to stay, even when her own husband made her feel alone.
“I don’t want you to apologize just today,” she said. “I want you to change.”
Martin nodded quickly.
—I’m going to change.
—Don’t say it just to cry. Say it with actions.
He took the bank card from the table and put it in her hand.
Then he did something she didn’t expect.
He took out his cell phone, opened the bank’s app, and showed her the screen.
—Starting tomorrow, we’ll deal with it together. The bills, the payments, everything. I don’t want you carrying this burden alone anymore. And if there’s no money for beer, there’s no money. If there’s money for a block, it’ll go towards a block.
Maribel looked at him for a long time.
As if she wanted to believe him, but was afraid.
—And your friends?
Martin wiped his face.
—Let them laugh. Let them say what they want. None of them are building me a house.
For the first time all night, Maribel truly smiled.
They sat down to dinner.
The chicken was already lukewarm, but to Martin it tasted like a feast.
He looked at the map between bites.
“Would this be the kitchen?” he asked.
-Yeah.
—With a large window?
Maribel smiled.
—With a big window. Just like you always wanted for me.
Martin put a hand to his chest.
—I thought you had forgotten about that nonsense.
“They weren’t silly dreams,” she said. “They were poor dreams, but dreams nonetheless.”
The next day, Martin did not go to the factory.
He asked for unpaid leave, although he would have been upset to lose that day.
He accompanied Maribel to Tecámac.
They took a van, then another truck, then walked several dirt roads.
The land was fenced with rusty mesh.
There was no grass.
There was no shade.
Just dry land, stones, and a crooked sign with white paint.
But when Maribel unlocked the padlock, Martín entered as if stepping on a miracle.
She bent down, took a handful of dirt, and cried again.
“Here goes the bougainvillea,” she said, pointing to the entrance.
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