One rainy afternoon in Guadalajara, my mother-in-law went to a neighborhood women’s group meeting, and Ángel was still on the road to Monterrey. I was alone with Don Héctor.
When it was time to help him bathe, he mumbled weakly:
—Better… tomorrow, daughter. I’m not feeling well today.
I smiled gently:
—No, Don Héctor. It’s warm out. If I don’t help you now, you might get sicker.
He was silent for a long moment, then sighed as if surrendering to fate. I prepared the warm water, set a special chair in the patio, and laid out the towels. I helped him sit up, and as I reached for his shirt buttons, he said in a trembling voice:
—Darling… don’t be scared… if you see… the scar.
A scar?
Suddenly, I remembered something Ángel had said when we were dating:
