Nor joy.
It was a kind of new space that I didn’t yet know how to fill.
I went for a walk on the beach.
There were some fishermen preparing their nets.
An elderly woman was sweeping the entrance of a small bakery.
Nobody looked at me with curiosity.
Nobody knew who I was.
Nobody expected anything from me.
That feeling was strange at first.
All my life I had been “Lily’s mom”.
“Arthur’s wife.”
“Grandma.”
Now it was just Margarita.
And that, I slowly discovered, could be a form of freedom.
The first few weeks were quiet.
I learned to live slowly.
He bought bread every morning at the bakery on the corner.
The owner, a man named Ramón, began to recognize me after a few days.
“Good morning, Mrs. Margarita,” she would always say with a smile.
He never asked where he came from.
He never asked about my family.
He would just give me the bread and wish me a good day.
Sometimes I would sit at a small table facing the sea with a cup of tea.
I watched the families walking along the beach.
Children running.
Parents chasing them.
Grandparents sitting on benches looking at the water.
