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I went back to my room, but sleep had slipped out the window. I sat on the edge of my bed, stroking the cotton sheets I’d brought from my old place. My room is small, the smallest in the apartment, because when I moved here two years ago, I insisted they have the master bedroom. “So they have their own space,” I told them. How silly of me.
Lucía, my daughter, didn’t leave her room during the shouting. I know she heard it. She’s a light sleeper, like me. Her silence was worse than Roberto’s shouting. Her silence confirmed that she, too, in some dark corner of her mind, was thinking the same thing: that I’m a burden, that I smell bad, that I’m in the way.
I waited for dawn. I listened to the sounds of the city waking up: the garbage truck, the first buses, the distant whine of the factories. Each sound reminded me that the world kept turning, indifferent to my pain. But I’m not one to lie around licking my wounds. My father always said, “If you fall, you get up and check what’s in your pockets.”
At 7 a.m. I went out to the kitchen. I made coffee as I do every day. The aroma of the freshly brewed coffee, strong and dark, began to fight against the chemical lavender smell from the bathroom. I set the table.
Roberto left first, dressed in his cheap suit and that tie that never seems to match. He walked past me without looking at me, went straight to the coffee maker, poured himself a cup, and drank it standing up, staring at his phone. Not a good morning, not an apology, nothing. To him, I was just another piece of furniture, one that sometimes smelled bad and that we had to put up with.
Then Lucía came out. She did look at me, but it was a fleeting, guilty glance.
“Mom…”, she began in a soft voice.
“Sit down and have breakfast, my daughter,” I said in such a flat tone that even I was surprised. There was no affection, only habit.
“Roberto was very tired last night,” she whispered, nervously spreading butter on a piece of toast. “You know how he gets when he’s woken up. Just ignore him.”
“I’m ignoring him,” I replied, turning my back to wash a spoon that wasn’t dirty. “Eat up, you’re going to be late.”
Roberto huffed from the living room, looking for his keys.
“Tell her to close the door tightly next time. Seriously, Lucía, she’s unbearable. It feels like we live in a nursing home.”
Lucía didn’t defend him. Nor did she defend me. She just lowered her head and bit into her toast.
At that moment, something broke inside me. It wasn’t a bone or an artery. It was the last thread of hope I had that this could be a family.
I looked around the apartment. The solid oak table where they were eating was mine, inherited from my grandmother. The Italian leather sofa where Roberto put his dirty feet was mine, bought with the profits from my best year ever at the restaurant. The double-door refrigerator, the microwave, the washing machine, the 60-inch flat-screen TV… Everything was mine.
When I sold my big house and the restaurant I used to relax in, I used that money to buy this apartment. I put it in my name, thank God and thanks to the insistence of my notary, an old friend who didn’t trust modern sons-in-law. But I let them think they were doing me a favor by taking care of me. I allowed them to live here rent-free, just sharing the utility bills so they could save up and buy their own place someday.
But in two years they haven’t saved a penny. They’ve traveled, eaten out, bought designer clothes, and I’m the useless old woman.
“We’re leaving,” Roberto said from the doorway, without saying goodbye to me. “Lucía, hurry up.”
“Goodbye, Mom. See you tonight,” my daughter said, giving me a quick kiss on the cheek, a dry, perfunctory kiss.
“I hope they do well,” I said. And I meant it. I wanted them to do well, far away from me.
The door closed with the metallic click of the lock. Silence filled the apartment again, but this time it didn’t feel lonely; it felt full of possibilities.
I went to the window and saw them leaving the building. Roberto was walking quickly, looking at his phone, and Lucía was jogging behind him, trying to keep up. They got into their car, a new model they’d bought three months ago because the old one was outdated.
I sighed and turned around. I walked to the center of the room and stood there, taking in the space.
“Useless old woman,” I repeated under my breath, tasting the words. They tasted of ash, but also of gasoline.
I went to my room and opened my nightstand drawer. There, beneath my rosaries and blood pressure medication, was my old contact book, the one for La Olla de Cobre. I turned the yellowed pages with my wrinkled but steady fingers. I looked under the letter M: Mercado Mario Mecánico, Mudanzas, Mudanzas El Toro.
Don Anselmo, the owner, had been a customer of mine for 20 years, a man of his word, one of those you just don’t see anymore. He said my meat stews gave his boys the strength to carry pianos.
I dialed the number on my cell phone. My pulse wasn’t racing. In fact, I felt calmer than I had in years.
“Hello,” a hoarse voice answered on the third ring.
“Don Anselmo, this is Francisca speaking. The one from The Copper Pot.”
There was a pause, and then a warm laugh on the other end of the line.
“Doña Francisca, what a surprise! How is the best cook in town? It’s been ages since we’ve heard from you.”
“I’m fine, Anselmo, or rather, I’m going to be fine. I need a service.”
“Whatever you say, ma’am. What needs to be moved?”
I looked around, I looked at the leather sofa, I looked at the oak table, I looked at the silk curtains, I looked towards the kitchen, where my appliances were gleaming.
“Everything, Anselmo,” I said firmly. “I need the biggest truck you have, and I need it right now. I’m going to empty the apartment.”
“Right now?” he asked, surprised.
“It’s an emergency.”
“Let’s say yes, a health emergency?” I replied. And a wry smile spread across my lips. “Apparently there’s a bad smell in the house and I need to take everything out to air it out. Understood?”
“We’ll be there in 40 minutes with the full team. Where do we take the things?”
“To the warehouse you have in the south. For now, I want everything stored there. I’ll go to a hotel for a few days.”
“Done. 40 minutes. Start packing the fragile items.”
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