“Respect your brother’s memory!” I snapped, getting up from my chair.
She sighed condescendingly.
—Marga, there’s no need to be rude. I’m trying to help. I’ve spoken with Roberto. He’s coming this weekend. We’ve been talking… Maybe it would be best if you sold this ranch. It’s too big for you alone. You could move to an apartment in Mexico City, near him, or to an assisted living facility here in town.
“I’m not selling the ranch!” I shouted. “This is my home. This is my life.”
When Beatriz left, I went back to the wall. It was already almost a meter high. According to Guillermo’s plans, it was supposed to be over two meters tall and enclose the entire plot. Months of work remained. As I laid the stones, I thought about my son. Roberto was always pragmatic, like his father, but without his imagination.
Saturday arrived, and with it, Roberto’s car. He got out dressed in city clothes, wearing shoes that weren’t meant for walking on dirt, with the serious expression of someone who has to “solve problems.”
—Hi, Mom.
—Hi, son. What a surprise.
There was no hug. He stared at the wall, which was already advancing imposingly along the front of the ranch
—Mom, what is this madness?