To survive, I did electrical work for hire. I would come home exhausted, but every night I would sit beside him and read him passages from old books. Sometimes I would talk to him about my students, the jacaranda trees in bloom, anything that would remind him that life went on.
Ximena hardly spoke.
She nodded. She cried silently. I believed it was pain… and pent-up love. I never doubted it.
Years passed. The visits dwindled. Some told me, bluntly, to let go, to think of myself. I didn’t judge them. Caring for someone like that is a long and lonely road.
Until that afternoon.
I was on my way to work when I remembered I’d forgotten my wallet: documents, money, everything. I went back home thinking I’d be in and out in seconds.
I opened the door.
The light of the setting sun came in through the broken window and revealed the truth like an open wound.
Ximena was not in bed.
I was standing.
Company. To you.
