I was sitting in the doctor’s waiting room when my phone rang. It was Angela, my only daughter. Her voice sounded strange, almost cold, as she said, “Mom, we’re going to Europe tomorrow. I already sold your beach house and your car.”

The neighbors greeted me with that mixture of pity and curiosity they reserve for recent widows. Aurora, my lifelong neighbor, approached me one afternoon while I was watering the front plants. Antonia, dear, is it true that Angela went to Europe and left you alone? Yes, Aurora went with Eduardo. They have business plans there.
And how are you going to live, dear? We all know Roberto didn’t leave much money. If only she knew, I thought, don’t worry, Aurora. I’ll be fine. Do you need anything? I can bring you food, help you with the shopping. You’re very kind, but I’m fine, really. Aurora looked at me with that expression I knew well.

It was the same look I’d received after the funeral, with passion mixed with a bit of relief that it wasn’t their tragedy. Well, you know where to find me if you need anything. These conversations were constantly repeated. The butcher, the baker, the lady at the corner store—they all spoke to me in that gentle tone they use with the unfortunate.
And I nodded, smiled, appreciated their concern, but inside, a part of me enjoyed this performance. It was like living a double life. Jorge called me one Wednesday morning. “Ms. Antonia, I have good news. I managed to cancel the sale of the beach house. The buyers didn’t know the sale was fraudulent, so they got their money back without any problems.