My husband and I divorced after five years of marriage.

No children.
No property in my name.
Not a single word trying to make me stay.

The house I once called family was on a quiet street in Curitiba, the city I moved to after leaving my homeland, Salvador, shortly after getting married.

The day I crossed that black iron gate, the Brazilian sun shone brightly in the sky. The light fell upon the reddish-tiled courtyard, warming everything around it.

But inside… I was frozen.My mother-in-law, Doña Carmen, was standing on the terrace with her arms crossed.
She watched me with an expression somewhere between satisfaction and disdain, as if she had finally gotten rid of something annoying.

My sister-in-law, Luciana, was by his side, with a crooked smile on her lips.

“Just leave already, so you stop getting in the way,” she said quietly, but loud enough for him to hear.
My ex-husband, Alejandro, wasn’t there.
He didn’t even come out to say goodbye.

Perhaps he was somewhere inside the house.
Or maybe he had left early so he wouldn’t have to witness that scene.

Anyway… it didn’t matter anymore.

I didn’t ask to take anything with me.

No arguments.
No complaints.
No tears.

I bowed my head in a final farewell.

-I’m going now.

No one answered.

I turned around and walked towards the exit.

Just as I put my hand on the lock of the iron gate…

A deep, hoarse voice sounded behind me.

-Maria.

I stopped immediately.

He was my father-in-law, Don Ernesto.

In the five years that I was his daughter-in-law, he was almost always the quietest man in that house.

He spoke little.
He rarely intervened.

Most of the time he sat in his wooden chair on the patio, reading the newspaper or tending to his pots of succulents.

I often wondered if he really realized what was happening inside that house.