“I almost never invite anyone to my house,” she confessed in a low voice. “Especially young boys who might be the same age as my son.”
I looked at her.
“He didn’t die,” she continued. “He just decided to leave. Five years ago. Every year he sends me a postcard. No return address. Last year from Tijuana. The year before from Chile. He keeps traveling… and I stay.”
I didn’t know what to say at first.
“She’s not alone,” I finally replied. “She’s just living honestly.”
He looked at me for a long moment. Then he smiled.
—You should be a writer, Diego.
“Maybe someday,” I said, laughing.
We laughed together. A soft laugh, warm like the midday sun in July coming through the window.
When we finished the tea, he showed me where he kept his tools: an old metal box with wrenches and screwdrivers.
