Espido Freire, How Not to Love Him?

Espido Freire

How Not to Love Him?

ure, go ahead,” my stepdaughter says. “Go have some coffee and, if there’s any change, I’ll call you.”

She blinks her stiff, discolored eyelashes, same as her father’s, as I kiss his closed, light blue eyes. Iris is waiting for me, holding my bag. We get in the hospital elevator and look at each other in silence, forcing a smile. She was left a widow a year ago: she wears black, an appeased mourning accessorized by a spectacular pearl necklace. Her husband was quite wealthy: somewhat wealthier than mine. He made a fortune with a freight company, my Enrique with real estate.

“She appreciates you very much, right?” Iris asks.

I nod. I obviously had to deal with suspicion and skepticism at first. I was younger than my stepchildren by several years. It made sense: a foreign girl, forty years younger than Enrique. I’ve spent the last eight years being subject to suspicious looks and careful scrutiny. But they’ve seen how I went out of my way for him; how I cooked his favorite meals; how I served as mediator for him and his children and took turns caring for him until I had to devote myself to him alone. It was me who insisted that he distribute his inheritance while still alive; me, who has settled for a third. A little over a third. The jewelry was not part of the inheritance. Nor were the company shares. Neither were a couple of trust funds under my name that I manage. All right, it’s well over a third. S

Of all of them, my stepdaughter was the most relentless. Now she is my ally, my advocate.

“How hard we judged you!” she said, tearfully, two weeks ago. “It must have been so hard for you, Mariona.”

When Dr. Luengo told us that Enrique had gone into an irreversible coma, I snatched the file from his hands. First, I reddened, then, I turned pale. I covered my face with my hands. My stepchildren, surprised, left the room to cry one after another.

“Since you wouldn’t fall in love with an older man, you thought no one could love your father.”

“Yes, you’re right.” “Your father saved my life.”

“And you saved his. Without you, my father was a bitter man. He didn’t notice his grandchildren. Not to mention me…”

Iris and I are sitting facing each other. “How are you?” she asks. “Exhausted.”

“It will be over soon. Don’t worry. It is a tough pill to swallow but, with all the arrangements, the funeral, the services… two months will go by before you know it.”

“I know, I know, but it is hard.” “Anyway. You know you can count on me for whatever you need.”

In a year or so, we will both return to our country. She is a doctor. Unfortunately, we couldn’t register the clinic we opened two years ago under our name, but we want to manage it, like the rest of our investments. The watchful eye of the master fattens the calf. Deep down, Enrique’s family must be eager to get me out of the way. What would they do with a 40-year-old stepmother? I have taken care of him; I have kept him entertained; I have done my part without causing headaches.

“You’ve done everything right,” Iris says and strokes my hair with her delicate hands. She’s wearing her wedding band and a diamond ring. “Gradually, subtly, with no pain…”

“I had a good teacher.” “When are you going to…?” “Tonight, I think.”

And suddenly I realize that this is it: tonight, I will finally be free. I think she’s right, I’ve done everything right. I have been a thoughtful, committed, loving wife…. In general, it hasn’t taken a huge effort. Time makes the heart grow fonder. How not to love him, if he has solved all my problems? After all, I am cautious, professional. I’m very demanding on myself. That must be how I was raised. Tonight, then. My Enrique won’t find out. Nor anyone else, of course.

—Translated by Isabel Asensio