After my husband’s funeral, my son took me to the outskirts of town and said, “This is where you get off, Mom. We can’t support you anymore.”
But I carried a secret I had kept for a long time, and one that my ungrateful son would eventually regret.
On the day of my husband’s burial, it was drizzling.
The small black umbrella wasn’t enough to hide the loneliness I felt in my heart. I trembled as I held the incense stick and looked at the freshly dug grave, the earth still damp.
My companion of almost forty years—my beloved Ramón—was now nothing more than a handful of cold earth.
