My name is Elena Herrera and I grew up believing that I had the perfect family. We weren’t rich at first, but we were happy. It was just Mom, Dad and I, living in a modest little house on the outskirts of Santiago. My dad, Jaime Herrera, was the hardest-working man I’ve ever met s.
He built his transport company from the ground up, starting with just two trucks and slowly turning it into a respectable business. Sometimes he came home covered in fat because in the early years he insisted on doing the maintenance of the trucks himself. My mom, Sandra, worked as a restaurant manager. She was good at her job, though she complained all the time s.
“Someday I want to be a real housewoman, Jaime,” she said during dinner, pushing the food on the plate. “These long nights are killing me.” Dad just smiled, held his hand and promised him that he could soon resign, and kept his promise.
When I was 9 years old, the business really took off. Dad got several big contracts and suddenly we were moving into a two-story house in one of the most beautiful neighborhoods in the eastern sector of the city. For the first time I had my own room. It was huge and bright, with windows facing the backyard.
I freaked out with the decoration. I painted the walls of light lilac, hung fairy lights everywhere, and asked Dad for a giant shelf for my books. He built it with his own hands. He spent a whole weekend locked in the workshop, muttering bad words when he thought I didn’t listen to him, but with a smile of pride when he finally installed it in my room.
Shortly after the move, Mom quit her job, just as she had always wanted. But instead of taking care of the house, as I said, he was almost never. It was always “lunch with the girls”, “a quick tour of shopping” or “the time in my hairdresser was extended to me”. Dad didn’t seem to worry. I was too busy with the company, although I was always in time for myself.
Sundays were sacred. We always went out for ice cream, only both of us. He listened carefully to all my stories from school and my friends as if they were the most important thing in the world. The last time we ate ice cream together was just before I turned 11. It was a very clear spring day, and Dad told me that one of his drivers had become ill.
“I’m going to have to make that trip myself,” he said, ending his cone. “Like in the old days.” “Can I go with you?” I asked excitedly about the idea of a road trip with him. He laughed and scrambled my hair. “Not this time, princess. It’s just a short one-night trip. I’m going back before you know it.” That night I hugged him tighter than normal before I went to sleep. “I love you, Dad,” I said, not knowing it would be the last time I would utter those words in front of him.
The next morning he left before dawn. Mom was still asleep, so Maria, our nanny, made her the coffee and saved some food in a tupper. I heard the engine of the truck start and how it drove away down the silent street. That was the last time I saw my father alive.
The call came at 3:47 a.m. I know because I was awake, with a weird feeling in my stomach. I heard Mom screaming from her bedroom, followed by the sound of something breaking, probably the candlelight. The next few hours are a blur in my memory. I remember two cops in the living room, Maria hugging me tightly as Mom walked back and forth talking on the phone.
Words like “multiple shock,” “mass collision” and “died on the spot” floated around me like black butterflies. Dad’s truck had hit another one that crossed the road. They said he didn’t suffer. Like that’s gonna help with something. Nothing did better. Nothing could give me back my dad.
