A little boy stood there, no older than four, holding a plastic toy. He stared at me curiously.
“Who are you?” he asked.
Before I could answer, a voice called from inside:
“Mateo, don’t open the door like that!”
She stepped into the hallway, drying her hands on a dish towel.
Time stopped.
The world went silent.
Three meters away from me stood Marina.
Alive.
Not a ghost. Not a memory.
Her hair was shorter. She looked fuller. She wore a simple house dress. But it was her—her eyes, her smile, the tiny scar on her chin.
Her face drained of color when she saw me.
“Roberto?” she whispered.
The bags fell from my hands. Cans rolled across the floor, breaking the silence.
“Marina?” I managed.
She backed away as if I were the nightmare.
“No… you shouldn’t be here.”
Then Doña Clara appeared, looking older—but healthy.
The pieces didn’t fit.
My “dead” wife.
Her mother, whom I’d supported for years.
And a child clinging to Marina’s leg, calling her Mama.
“I buried you,” I said, my voice turning cold. “I cried over your coffin. I’ve paid for your memory for five years.”
Marina broke down. Guilty, panicked tears.
A man stepped out of another room—tall, broad, unfamiliar.
“What’s going on?” he asked.
“This is Roberto,” Marina said quietly. “My… ex-husband.”
That word hurt more than the funeral ever had.
Ex-husband.
The man looked at me, then at her.
“Is this the one with the money?” he asked.
She nodded.
Everything clicked.
