When Julián d:ied of a heart attack, everyone in Valencia assumed that the widow, Carmen Ortega, would stay still—sad and available for whatever was needed. I helped organize the funeral myself, accepted hugs, endured empty condolences, and let my children, Daniel and Lucía, speak in front of me as if they had already assigned me a new role: the useful mother, the on-call grandmother, the woman who waits for phone calls and solves domestic problems.
I didn’t tell them that three months before my husband’s death I had secretly bought a ticket for a year-long cruise through the Mediterranean, Asia, and Latin America. I hadn’t done it out of madness or whim.
I had done it because for years I had felt that my life had been reduced to taking care of everyone except myself.
During the week after the burial, Daniel came to the house twice.
The first time was to review inheritance paperwork with an urgency that left me cold. The second time he arrived with his wife, Marta, carrying two pet carriers and an unbearable smile.
