The funeral is also a haze in my head. I remember the closed coffin and I, without believing that he was in there. Mom made a show, crying and almost throwing herself over the coffin. Now, seeing it from afar, I know how theatrical everything was. But at 11 years old I thought that was how adults cried.
At the funeral I first met Uncle Roberto and Aunt Patricia. They were almost strangers, but Uncle Roberto had the same eyes as my dad, with those wrinkles on the corners when he tried to smile despite the tears. “Elena,” she said, kneeling to stay up to my height. “I am your father’s brother. I’m so sorry we have to know each other like that.” “And why have I never seen you before?” I asked, straight as only children can be. A shadow crossed his face. “Your dad and I had a fight many years ago, but now none of that matters. I had to come and say goodbye to my brother boy.”
After the funeral, Mom’s pain evaporated like the morning fog. In a few weeks she was already meeting with Dad’s lawyers, taking control of the company and acting like she knew of some cargo transportation. He began using words like “restructuring” and “modernization,” but it was evident that he only improvised.
I spent most of my time with Maria, who moved her head sadly every time Mom arrived loaded with bags of expensive shops. “Your mom is spending the money like it’s never going to end,” she muttered one day while making me lunch. “And those poor drivers haven’t been paying them well for weeks.” He was right. Dad’s employees started giving up one after another. Many had worked with him from the beginning. I remembered their names, their faces, the little gifts that brought me their routes. Now they were leaving, unable to keep their families with empty promises.
Six months after Dad’s death, Mom sold what was left of the company for a fraction of what she was worth. It acted as if it had made a brilliant move, but everyone knew the truth. I had taken my father’s lifelong work straight to the ground. After the sale, Mom was almost not home. I was always on something, somewhere.
I spent most of my time with Mary. She began to teach me basic English, saying that one day she would serve me, and she would tell me stories of her people from when I was young. After school, I went straight to the library. It was better than going back to an empty house. Mom would appear late at night, sometimes smelling of wine, barely aware of my existence. “Ah, you’re still awake,” she said, as if surprised to see me in my own home. Then he would lock himself in his bedroom and not see her again until the next day, if she was lucky.
Until he arrived that Sunday night. I was doing homework in the kitchen when the door was slammed open. Mom came laughing as a teenager. I didn’t come alone. “Elena, my love,” he called with a voice full of false enthusiasm. “Come and meet Ricardo.” Ricardo was tall and wearing an expensive suit that still looked cheap. His smile didn’t reach my eyes when he looked at me.
