I cried for having talked to a disease for months, giving it affection because no one gave me anything else.
Dr. Salcedo was by my bed.
“It went well, Mrs. Morales. We’re waiting on the final result, but we arrived in time.”
“And my children?”
His gaze hardened.
“Outside.”
“Did they ask about me?”
He hesitated.
That was his answer.
“They asked when you would be able to sign papers.”
I closed my eyes.
A tear rolled down to my ear.
Adriana, the social worker, left a folder on the table.
“A neighbor of yours also came by. Mrs. Socorro. She says she has something for you.”
Mrs. Socorro was my lifelong neighbor. She sold quesadillas outside the metro station and knew more about the neighborhood than the entire community board. She entered with her shawl, a plastic bag, and eyes blazing.
“You stubborn old woman,” she said. “Why didn’t you tell me you were in that much pain?”
“I thought I was pregnant.”
“Oh, Larisa, even the Virgin wouldn’t pull off such strange miracles without a warning.”
I laughed, and the incision hurt.
Then she took a folder out of her bag.
“Your Ramon left me copies. He told me: ‘Socorro, if my children ever get clever, you get cleverer.’”
Inside were the original deeds, an old will, receipts for taxes and utilities, and a letter from my husband.
My Ramon.
I read it with trembling hands.
“Larisa, our children are ours, but that doesn’t mean they are good. If one day they want to make you feel useless to take the house, remember: we built this house, not them.”
I covered my mouth.
