almost rested, like she had rehearsed her cruelty in private and now found relief in finally using it.

I looked past her toward the staircase.

For one foolish second, I expected my son to come down.

I expected to hear his steps, quick and heavy, and his voice saying, “Mariana, enough.”

But the staircase stayed empty.

The only sound was the grandfather clock in the hall, marking time inside a house that had suddenly become foreign to me.

She took the photograph from the table, removed it from the frame, and pushed the picture into my hand without looking at his face.

Then she opened the front door.

Cold air rushed in.

It smelled like rain and pine and the damp gravel road beyond the gate.

“You wanted to be his mother so badly,” she said.

“Go mourn him somewhere else.”

I carried the suitcases myself.

No one came after me.

No servant.

No neighbor.

No relative.

People had filled that house the day before, pressing my hands, calling me strong, telling me Neftali had loved me more than anything.

By evening, they had returned to their own warm kitchens.

Grief is crowded at funerals and lonely afterward.

The road to the cabin climbed behind the property and disappeared into the hills.

Years ago, Neftali had bought that stretch of land with the idea of fixing the old hunting cabin there.

He used to say it would be our quiet place.

Somewhere I could plant rosemary and basil.

Somewhere he could escape phone calls.

He had never finished it.

The higher I walked, the colder the night became.

The gravel thinned into mud.

Branches scraped my sleeves.

Once, I slipped and caught myself against a tree, and the suitcase handle tore the skin at the base of my palm.

I wanted to sit down right there in the dark.

I wanted to let the mountain keep me.

Instead, I kept walking because the photograph of my son was tucked inside my coat, warm against my chest.

By the time I reached the cabin, I understood what Mariana had done.

She had not sent me there to live.

She had sent me there because the place was far enough away that my suffering would not disturb her.

The cabin leaned slightly to one side, as if tired of standing.

One window was cracked from corner to corner.

The front step gave under my foot with a wet groan.

Inside, the air was sour and sealed, heavy with damp wood, old ash, and the stale odor of mice.

I found a cot in the corner with a torn blanket folded on top.

A broken chair stood beside a table with one uneven leg.

On the stove, rust had bloomed in orange patches.

The walls were stained where water had run through them during old storms.

I placed my suitcases near the door and stood in the center of the room.

The silence was not peaceful.

It pressed against my ears.

I took Neftali’s photograph from my coat and lowered myself to the floor.

I held it with both hands and looked at his face until my vision blurred.

Then, for the first time since the hospital called, I became angry at him.

It is a terrible thing to feel anger toward the