NATALIA

beginning

I have always thought that ideas are like small colored balloons that adhere to our ceiling and, over time, form a large bank of thoughts on our lap. Perhaps this is why, when we go to bed, we have gotten used to always thinking about the same things. As if during the nights we were molding those balloons, until turning them into key pieces of our personality. Under that same roof my mother Sofía rests by my side.

You could say that today is not a different day from the previous ones, feeling the same as always, as tired as always. I have been awakened by those worries that I have been accumulating throughout my life, the same ones that, without meaning to have become my new alarm. Those concerns that, without even waiting for me to open my eyes, begin to remind me of the reasons for my permanent anguish.

I notice how the darkness fades in the morning as each corner of our room lights up. When they ask my mother about her job, she always ignores the question and subtly changes the topic of conversation. Something that is not surprising for those who really know her, knowing that behind this customary maneuver there is only a deep shame. Being one of the countless women who perform domestic work in the city of Bogotá, one that has been performing for more than 37 years.

In our family portrait, her father figure has never existed, which is why society has condemned my mother to live mentioning, or at least live pretending, to be in a constant search for a husband. This being a requirement that, regardless of the passing of time, seems not to lose validity. A reality that has been withering his hopes of finding a partner and has been transforming them into just a naive New Year's resolution. One that she always says, to appease the opinionated eyes of those who judge her, when they ask her one of those implied questions.

A loneliness that sometimes she ignores due to his inevitable distrust of the unknown, perhaps driven by the bad memories of my father, which continue to resonate like a punishment in the depths of his memory. That same father that I have interpreted more as a legend than as an absentee, having only heard stories of such a mysterious individual.

When someone asks my mother about the abandonment we suffered, she always takes time to decide which of my two parents should describe to them, because she knows that each of them exalts what the other hates. A phrase that in principle does not stop sounding absurd but that does not stop it from being true. From this I reveal to you that, although it is true that this second father exists, it is also true that it only exists in the mind of my mother.

I ask you not to misinterpret my words, knowing the infinite number of interpretations that can be derived from these simple phrases. I just want to clarify that what I have just told you is not the diagnosis of my mother's mental illness, or anything like that. It is just the way she has found so that her past does not condition my future; well, she knows that my father's story is not suitable for all listeners, so she prefers that her answer depend on the stratum of whom she asks.

This has been a lie with which she has managed to cope with her past, because despite being just a mirage, it has given her the security to dominate the memory of my father. Well, by feeling supported by this imaginary accomplice, she no longer feels helpless when she relives the anguishing months that she suffered at the hand of that authentic torturer.

I have always been interested in my mother's effort to keep the story of my “second” father current. That story that, during the first years, did not stop sounding pathetic and forced, but as time went on, it became the entertainment par excellence of the guests at the house. This was a gradual process, remembering how my mother added from an artificial sparkle in her eyes to a dramatic tone of voice. Details with which she expected to be talking about bygone and nostalgic times, but which in turn warned, remembering pain overcome many years ago.

During her invented story, my mother narrates the tale of my second father, telling us from the day they met until the day that indomitable love vanished. Which, to her surprise, turned out to be just a formality, since none of those nice words had the intention of being fulfilled.

Supposedly, during the first months of our relationship, my second father appeared to be the person my mother would have liked him to be. A lie that she knew deep down, but that she preferred to ignore, perhaps driven by that phrase that my grandmother used to tell her “only good women marry young”. A theater with which she felt comfortable at the beginning but, as time went by, it seemed more and more difficult for her to convince himself of it.

The relationship itself began to demand sincerity from them, seeing how the lack of depth in their dialogues showed them how little they knew each other, having been deceived into thinking that, having lived together for a few months, they already understood each other. That was a white lie that they told themselves when reality showed them that, despite having gotten used to their company, they were still strangers. All this my mother felt when she saw my second father across the room. She had gotten used to visualizing it as if it were a playing card.

A card that at the beginning was enough for her by itself, because when looking at it, she felt that it complemented her and at the same time allowed her to dream but that, as the months went by, she began to feel light. So one day, when trying to look at its content, she realized that it was just a nice cover. A discovery that she did not take her by surprise, but that she preferred to simulate to keep up appearances. With those kind of details, my mother had managed to turn her story into an unavoidable anecdote of the evening. As if her story were creating a mask capable of deceiving her viewers, making them believe that the person speaking to them was one of the guests and not, another of the employees.

So, my boss, knowing the spiciness of the story, used to captivate his guests with it, as it contained the same ingredients as any Mexican novel. Over time, the story was gaining viewers, to the point that he no longer had to mention it, since the guests themselves were the ones who asked him to hear the story. To which my boss asked them for patience, since he preferred to save the story for the end of the evening, knowing that the story would only have the expected effect when it was listened to with the ears softened by alcohol. Aware that this was the only way for those great executives to put aside appearances and really enjoy those mundane details.

The story focuses on the first months of courtship, which serve as a prelude to a life full of misfortunes. Some misfortunes that, over time, have been gaining truth, because my mother has been adding such precise details that some nights, I even questioned myself if she has really lived through those sufferings or if they are just well told lies.

With a sudden reality check, she was forced to face a situation she knew about but had always preferred to ignore. A foolishness that she maintained for months, perhaps prompted by a phrase from her mother that she underestimated until then. This phrase is common to hear in the elderly in my country, as it is an expression that shows how deeply macho Colombian society continues to be.

The disputed phrase is as follows: the woman has to live submissively in the face of her husband's mistakes. As if she, despite presenting her as a couple, was limited to just being her company. A phrase that conditioned my mother's happiness, having overshadowed her criteria in such a way, that she turned her into a victim of her own invention.

It was a call at dawn from her that made him show all those signs that she overlooked during the first months of their courtship. A call she made when she woke up one morning and didn't find her partner on the other side of the bed. My mother, imagining the worst, decided to call him at the pillow company where she worked. To her surprise, when she explained the situation, they answered that they did not know this man and that she should stop calling the respected motel "Santa Vida".

After having awakened her fear and pity in her listeners, my mother decides to seize the moment by pronouncing the existence of a mysterious letter. A letter that was supposedly left, as if it were a bad joke, on top of the cradle of the daughter they were expecting. When she decides to recite its content from memory, that text that she has rewritten so many times, it seems to speak of a pain so deep that she wouldn't even know how to heal over time.

The letter recounted the harrowing days of her ex-partner prior to the abandonment of her family, ending with a sentence, which was really nothing more than an excuse, with which she asked him to try to understand it. Arguing that he would never know for sure why he was leaving them, he only knew that it was something that was written in his path. As if he were a victim of circumstance and not a coward who left a pregnant teenager, ready to be baited by fate.

The first version of this story was invented sitting in a room full of women, all of them waiting to hear her name on a speaker, the same one with which they were called to appear for a job interview. A job that they all prayed for, knowing that they all dreamed of becoming the employee of such a promising couple.

During the wait, my mother could not stop looking at the ball that her belly had become, the same ball that upon entering that room, had ceased to be a blessing and had become an impediment to such spectacular work.

Knowing that there were people more qualified than her among the applicants and remembering the rumor that was spreading in the room, that the job had already been given, she came up with the idea for the story. She knew that she had to pretend to be a life with which she would captivate her interviewers and, incidentally, make them overlook the detail of her pregnancy. She couldn't think of a better idea than a story full of tragedies, knowing that those unfortunate incidents would feed her future bosses a feeling of altruism, an emotion that well-to-do people always enjoy feigning. And what better repertoire than her memory, in which all those stories of deceit and betrayal accumulated, for which she cried inconsolably more than once. Stories that, regardless of being seen on a tiny screen, at times allowed her to escape from her consolidated monotony and dream of a better life.

The story of my first father, the real one, of which only his true friends know, is a story with which he can stop pretending the theater of my second father. My mother's suffering when telling this story is sincere, seeing how she reincarnates in each of her words the innumerable anxieties she experienced during this incongruous stage.

Beginning with the germination of a love opposite to that of the previous story, which occurred, not as a coincidence, but as an obligation, having been a union arranged by her parents. My mother was never consulted about this decision, so she was the last to know about it. That happened one day when, going to visit her mother, she found her in her kitchen raving about her in front of her future in-laws. A scene that always reminds him of a village auction.

Continuing with the story, she describes her life in the first months of living together. She now laughs when she remembers how much she thanked her parents for that union, having freed her "forever" from the ghost of loneliness, the same one that had tormented more than one aunt for so many years. But over time, she realized how difficult it is to perpetuate the energy of the first few months. Seeing how the image of that ideal couple was disappearing from her and that she, instead of her, was installing a portrait that was alien to her.

She herself watched in amazement as that person who, with caresses, woke her up in the morning, gradually transformed into the same person who beat her mercilessly at night. As if that couple that she had glorified at family gatherings was now just a strange memory. When she reaches that point in the story, it's impossible not to notice all those scars that her makeup has failed to hide.

My maternal family, when referring to such a hated person, prefers to desist from rude words, I have invoked him only as a bum who abandoned my pregnant mother and left her submerged in a sea of debts. When my mother tells me this story, I have never perceived her resentment with her parents, as if she had assimilated what happened as the natural course of her life. As if she was unconsciously trying to convince me of how important it is to live submissively in the face of parental decisions. Because, no matter how wrong they seem, they will always be better than those taken by us, the inexperienced childrens.

All this has created for me an image of my real father that I consider ambivalent, having grown up in an environment marked by a deep hatred towards him. One that over time I have adopted but that in turn I have been modifying in my opinion. I say this because with the passing of the years, I have been running out of excuses with which I reassured my desire to meet him. Well, as my paternal grandmother used to say, after all, there is only one father.

I cannot deny that I miss the mental lightness of my childhood, the one that allowed me to ignore how conditioned our stay in this luxurious house is. A lightness that made me not notice how my mother was teaching me, not to say training me, to be submissive enough to guarantee our permanence in the house. A condition that, over time, I feel compromised the full development of my personality, having been an obstacle that distanced me from the person I could have been. And that, on the contrary, I was turning into a stealthy person during the day, one who lives with only one thought in his head, that of continuing to convince his bosses that no matter how uncomfortable our presence in the house is, it will always be necessary.

Our work is the only one that has a sad peculiarity, that of forcing those who carry it out to live working. Well, despite the fact that there are moments in which this is not evident, the most important work is always being done, to radiate that respectful and quiet attitude that characterizes good housekeepers. An idea that has hardly crossed the minds of the residents of this house, those that I have inevitably gotten to know in depth during these years of living together. The same ones that over the years have begun to see us more as old furniture than as people.

Beginning with Carlos, our boss, one of those gentlemen who only live for work. Something that no one can deny that he must do well, because with my mother we have gotten used to moving every five years to a more luxurious house. We have always arrived at a larger house, with an increasingly modern kitchen, adorned with an infinity of buttons in English. Up to that point everything is rosy, the only thing that never fails to disappoint us is that, regardless of the volume of the house, the utility room is always the same size.

His wife left him about 5 years ago, but with my mother we laughed saying that he still doesn't realize it. As time went by, we watched as this promising couple grew apart until they became complete strangers. Something that was inevitable, remembering how quiet meals were in the house, in which regardless of the many decorations we put on the table, the conversations always felt forced. Over time, each one took refuge in their interests, which gradually took over their lives until they became a couple who, when they met at home, only greeted each other out of courtesy.

His wife, Diana, is one of those women that when she introduces herself to someone, she looks at him openly down to the smallest detail. Just to know which of all her personalities that person deserves to know. In our case, the examination was quite fast, because just by seeing my mother's neglected shoes, she decided that we would meet that Diana, the one that only spoke with orders.

Carlos always talks about Diana as if she were his wife, which in practical terms she still is, having never signed the divorce papers. We don't know if he does it as a kind of revenge, or if behind that stubbornness there is a naive hope to recover a love that never existed.

The children of such a dysfunctional marriage are Mr. Daniel and Miss Lucía. I have always felt that Mr. Daniel is one of those people who lives in a constant internal conflict, so on days when he seems stressed, I try to keep as quiet as possible when serving him breakfast, not wanting to make my day miserable with any of his classy comments. But at the same time, on days when he seems distracted, I enjoy when he talks to me without any kind of malice. It is as if he himself imposed this unpleasant attitude, perhaps inhibited by the sensitivity that he reflects in his carefree dialogue.

A malice that he presents when he tries with his dialogue to remind the person with whom he speaks that he does not have the same economic solvency or social status as him. An evil that is reduced when his gestures fail to disguise the contradiction he feels when he articulates such infamous words. Knowing that, deep down, he is just a good person who is wrongly dealing with frustrations.

Her sister, Miss Lucía, has moved further and further away from her house, perhaps fed up with being the only one who defended her mother when her father discredited her. An attitude that has withered her relationship with her father, but especially with her brother, having always been on opposite sides during the fights at home. She is a woman with a conscience, one who sometimes seems as if she dominates her, unable to avoid that, just seconds after saying an offensive word, she shows her regret. Something that she tries to hide with pride, preferring to escape from the place, before someone realizes her suffering.

After serving them breakfast, I hide behind one of the kitchen columns, sitting at a small white table stained with blackberry juice that, despite the years, has not lost its intensity. During breakfasts with my mother, we drink an intense coffee and accompany it with some bread, one much simpler than the one that will be left intact in the main dining room. When serving them those banquets, I always end up thinking about how our lives have developed around these people, who, regardless of the years of living together, will always make us feel like intruders.

In our work, the tradition of helping us has always been maintained, but keeping their distance, so that unnecessary coexistence is not misinterpreted by the prejudiced friends of the house. That is one of those traditions with which we are reminded periodically how grateful we are for their help, expressing it with a smiling face and submissive eyes. Something similar to what my Uncle Luis feels in his day to day, one of the thousands of Colombian immigrants in Spain. As I now understand when he told me that before going out into the street, he should remind himself of the fragility of his stay, only to adopt that nervous attitude that the natives interpreted as gratitude.

An opinion that should not be misinterpreted as we feel greatly grateful for their help. But that's not why I think we have to adopt a condition similar to that of a domestic animal, from which only a behavior focused on the liking of its master is expected; knowing that some bosses encourage their employees to live thanking them, or at least live pretending to. Something that does nothing more than remind us of something that does not need to be mentioned, that in this work we live in constant uncertainty.

What can be interpreted as a conditioned validation of our presence, with which they remind us of our inferiority and at the same time make sure that we are not going to believe to be something more than what they have let us be. A clear example of what I think was experienced one day when 100,000 pesos were lost in the house, something that took everyone by surprise. My mother was the first to be asked about it, to which she answered with complete sincerity, that she did not know where the money was and she even told them that she did not remember having seen them. However, as the hours passed, our boss began to look at us differently, a look that suddenly softened when Miss Lucia found them under her computer.

Those were the situations that explained to me why the boss's sons didn't want to be my friends anymore. I have never blamed them, knowing that our origins were separating us, by conditioning from our way of dressing to our way of speaking. Now that I think about it, it hurts to remember the moment when they stopped laughing with me and started laughing at me. I realized all this one morning when I stopped feeling that warm gaze with which they received me for another day of games, as if I were one of those toys that they were no longer interested in playing with. Our friendship ended the day I preferred not to go up to play, not wanting to see again that disgusted face that they did when they saw me.

I remember one day when, with the confidence that my 8 years gave me, I told Mrs. Diana that I did not want an old t-shirt that she gave me, because it had a blackberry juice stain on the neck. An answer that left her so surprised that her eyes looked at me incredulously, as if they didn't understand what they were observing. I remember how my mother, having heard my answer, began to scold me with a severity that I did not know. To the point that I ran to my room and hid under the bed.

A few minutes later, I watch as my mom walks into our room and starts looking for me. Seeing me come out of my hiding place, she sits on her bed and slowly extends her arms, expressing such great repentance with her eyes that her words alone are insufficient for her. When I finally accept her hug, I feel from her voice that she is trying to explain something absurd, but at the same time, necessary. A reality that she explains to me as if it were a game of just one rule: regardless of the gift we receive, we must always accept it with gratitude. A rule that hides a sad truth, that we live in a world where the rich are thanked for their garbage.

These episodes explained to me why my mother lived with her head down. A gesture that I initially misinterpreted as a lack of character, but over the years I understood that it was a survival strategy, one with which she had managed to give me the education she never had. I always remember seeing her at the door waiting for me when she came home from school, with a loving smile and the same uncertainty about my day. When she saw me tired and not wanting to do my homework, she would affectionately tell me that she had always wanted to finish high school, but that life's urgencies had never allowed her to. An argument to which I only responded with a smile, which is why I always remember doing my homework with the television in the background, while we watched one of those novels that she loved.

Mr. Daniel has always seemed to me the best thing in the house, as I blush when I see him come out shirtless after taking a bath. As if it were a tribute that, luckily for me, my dark complexion hid it to him. The only one who I could not trick was my mother, who had realized, even before me, what had been happening to me for some time. So, one Sunday afternoon, taking advantage of the fact that the family was not there, she sat me down in the living room and explained to me what my heart felt. Seeing me surprised by my situation, she reassured me with her usual smile, but at the same time, she clarified that this love could only be enjoyed from afar, because I already knew very well my role in this house.

It was those kinds of situations that explained to me why, despite technically living in the same house, our home was just one room. We all entered through the same door, but our reality was completely different. I could already understand why our crockery was marked and also why they were disgusted when they got the wrong glass. Which I always found contradictory, since they never had a problem when they ate in restaurants, where hundreds of people used the same crockery before. Suddenly it will be because those who used it were as rich as they were.

Our room has been my mother's refuge from this unpleasant environment. Being the only place in the house where she does not feel observed and where, hand in hand with her television, she observes a world as striking as it is distant. With that device, my mother plunges into a trance, with which she momentarily forgets the only world she knows. She always talks about the television as if it were her partner, since everyone knows that her real "second" husband is nothing more than this common device. A reality that she sadly analyzed, observing that it has also been the same one with whom she has managed to forget about her life.

sofía

I have always thought that life can be understood as an ocean and that the waves are nothing more than its problems, which, depending on the storm, reach you with more or less intensity. So almost unconsciously some of us sink our feet into the sand, as it is the only way in which we guarantee some kind of stability. A strategy that over the years begins to be counterproductive, as we do not realize how we are sinking more and more into the ocean, to the point where the same stability that our comfort zone offers us is the one that ends up drowning us.

My mother works on one of those jobs that people consider mundane, as it not require prior training. However, there is a debt of society towards these people, by exempting other workers from worrying about those daily necessities of life and allowing them to dedicate themselves fully to those activities that require a specialist, who have a fundamental role within of the continuity of society. Therefore, although it is true that the design of a bridge is not comparable to the cleanliness of a bathroom, it is also true that the cleanliness of the bathroom contributes indirectly to the good design of the bridge, by providing favorable conditions for the optimal development of the activity. Something that society ignores, because it is economically profitable for the wealthy classes.

My mother's face shows how she suffers when she talks to her boss's children, seeing how they have gotten rid of her over the years. She cannot hide how strange that smile with which they received her in the morning, having been the one who accompanied them throughout their childhood, because her real mother only saw them to kiss them goodnight. She does not blame them, because she understands that they are attitudes specific to each of the facets of life. But at the same time, she feels frustrated, having naively thought that she was going to be the exception in this world of abandoned second mothers.

She had gotten used to a lifestyle in which she lived happily together with the bus driver, the orderlies and the gardener. Being an environment in which there was a common cause, the joy of children. This is why my mother would have loved to encapsulate this lifestyle and perpetuate it throughout her existence, being years in which she felt really loved and in which she allowed herself to think that somehow it belonged to her. But now that those children are no longer there, that connection withered until it became a memory longed for only by my mother and forgotten by those whom she will secretly always see as her other children's.

But now, my mother's fear is evident knowing that she is needed less and less, feeling that her movements are not the same as before and noticing that her judgment is becoming brittle. She knew that this moment would come, that it was inevitable, but at the same time she never worried about putting it off. Well, over the years, people feel that with age they accept certain stubbornness, without caring that they are conditioning their future.

My mother's problem is that she always hated her job, so she lived complaining about it. But when they asked her why she didn't quit, she always apologized using me, arguing that having a daughter required a stable job. An excuse that is valid, the problem is that my mother used that pretext as if it were her beam up her sleeve, with which she evaded any possibility of change, without caring that in turn she was condemned to a life that consumed her day by day. I feel that she is proud of never having aspired to something more, having convinced herself that it was her destiny that had forced her to live within these four walls, as if it were a house for a prison. It is a sad victory that my mother exposes with a smile, because when she reached an age as mature as hers, people finally gave in to the stubbornness of her criteria.

Juana

A word that is difficult to mention and to which all kinds of taboos are associated, especially in countries as Catholic as Colombia. These 8 letters have become a question mark throughout my life. I've always wondered if my mother ever thought of aborting me, it's a reasonable question, considering that she had me as a teenager and that my father, as soon as he heard the news, ran away like he was escaping from a time bomb.

My doubt has been so great that I couldn't resist asking my aunt Mariela if she knew anything about it. Being sure that if my mother leaned on anyone during those difficult moments, it was her. After begging her for more than 5 years for an honest answer, Mariela agreed to tell me how thorny the pregnancy was for my mother. She only told me that, although it is true that my mother considered aborting me, there were always compelling reasons that kept her from the idea of hers. An answer that left me even more uneasy, when I realized that my greed seemed to have no limits, because just hearing the words “compelling reasons”, my brain began to imagine endless scenarios. So I knew that if I ever wanted to have what we call peace of mind, I would have to know what those reasons were.

That's when I started the first part of my strategy, in which, as if by magic, Mariela's favorite chocolates appeared in my hand. I accept that it was one of the lowest moments of my life, knowing that Mariela's appetite has no limits, but the uncertainty overwhelmed me, I could not imagine a future without answering that question. Just seeing the package, Mariela's eyes widened like saucers, it was clear that she couldn't control herself, because despite knowing my intentions she preferred to ignore them in order to continue dreaming of that delicate taste of almonds in her mouth.

Without saying the obvious, Mariela quickly grabbed the chocolates and with unbridled speed she ate even the crumbs from the packaging. After taking a break and gently brushing the crumbs off his shirt, he told me that religion had been the main reason why my mother had preferred not to abort me, since they had grown up hearing that women who aborted went straight to hell. Grandma's opinion had also played a fundamental role, because my mother knew that if she only pronounced the word abortion, my grandmother would not speak to her again, much less would she let her go back into her house. And without further ado, and with an air of sadness, she mentioned Juana's name while she blessed herself.

Juana had been one of my mother's best friends, they had studied together at school and our families had known each other all their lives. When they were studying, Juana was the most envied girl in town, as she had a "secret" relationship with Javier, the most handsome man in the area. She preferred to deny the romance because Javier was a little over 20 years older than her, but deep down the whole town knew about the romance and even supported it, in a weird way.

Due to life circumstances, Juana ended up pregnant when they were finishing ninth grade, so when she heard the news, she went straight to my mother's house. While Juana tried to tell her about her unfortunate outcome, she barely understood her, because a sea of tears overshadowed her voice that only a scream from her was heard. When she finally calmed down enough to speak understandably, she told him how scared she was, knowing that just mentioning it to her parents would call her a whore and immediately throw her out of the house. And not to mention what Javier would say to her, because she remembered a phrase that he had mentioned to her during the first months of their courtship, with which he reminded her that, if she happened to get pregnant, she should forget about their romance. Those were the concerns that gnawed at young Juana, a girl who still did not understand the depth of the event, but she was already sizing up the consequences of what an unwanted pregnancy caused to a humble Colombian woman.

Feeling that she had no way out, she thought of fleeing, of escaping to the capital with the hope of aspiring to a new life. Free of any prejudice and eager to know something more than the town where she was born. Something that sounded very poetic, but at the same time inaccessible. Well, she knew that she didn't have anyone in Bogotá, much less knew how to get a job. So, she preferred to forget about that idea and consider other options.

Suddenly they both looked at each other mischievously, because they knew one another well enough to know what the other thought. Being an option that they knew little about, but it would be the best way to forget about the problem and, furthermore, nobody would find out. Without needing to say it, they began to play with the idea, to expand and compress it innocently, because deep down my mother knew that Juana would not beapaz to do it.

After several minutes of laughter Juana began to talk more and more seriously, her tone became thicker and her gaze became focused, my mother felt that the games were over, and that Juana was really considering the idea. My mother judged herself incapable of having that conversation with her friend, knowing that they were just two girls talking about something they didn't know, about something so complex that the families themselves would fight just by mentioning the subject. The one who had been the subject of innumerable debates in congress would be the same one that, in a single night, two girls would decide.

Looking at the ground, Juana told my mother that she knew who practiced them, the only bad thing is that she was a friend of her mother's. When she told her who it was, my mother couldn't contain her surprise. It is that who would have imagined that the woman who distributed the eggs in the town in the mornings was the same one who performed abortions in her house at night. Her breakfasts would taste different from that day on.

My mother did not stop thinking about Juana, but at the same time she calmed down by telling herself that she would not be capable of doing such madness. Well, just by remembering Father Tulio's warning when he said, girls who abort are only girls of bad life, it was impossible for him to think that Juana would disobey, so she preferred to ignore the issue and continue with her life. Everything was going normally until one day when Juana did not go to school, she assumed that she would be sick or that she would arrive later. However, as the day went by, her friend never came. When she got home, she tried to call her, to which a tired voice answered that if she needed Juana, she was studying at Sofía's house. Something that left her uneasy, because she knew that Juana always warned her when she told lies in her house.

Visiting the places where she could find her friend, she first went to the corner store, where she alone saw a drunken parade. Not seeing her at her usual table, she decided to look for her in the town court, where she ran into almost all of her friends, except her favorite. Therefore, praying that she was with her boyfriend, she went to look for her at her workshop, where they told her that she had not been there for days. Finally, and with bitterness in her eyes, she decided to look for her in the house of the lady with the eggs, imploring to meet anyone except her friend.

When she got to the door, she was surprised by the dirt on the windows, the layer of dust was so thick that she couldn't be seen behind the stained-glass windows. After thinking about it a few times, she decided to knock on the door, to which a boy opened it with a smile, asking what she needed. When she told him that she was looking for her friend, he told her to follow him, while she suggested that she should not worry about her, that she was asleep on the kitchen table. Upon entering the house, she was surprised by her smell, perceiving the characteristic aroma of her blood and sweat.

When she finally found her friend, she seemed prettier than ever, she seemed like a beacon of beauty around a world of dirt. When she went to stroke her hair to wake her up, the lady with the eggs came in and asked her not to touch her, to let her sleep. Knowing the reason for Juana's visit, my mother preferred not to bother her with details and just asked her when she could take her friend home, to which she replied that she didn't know, that she preferred to wait a few hours, so when she returned from doing some things she would decide.

She thought of reproaching the lady with the eggs for the conditions where she served her friend, but assuming that she was more of a favor than anything else, she preferred not to say anything, just look at her gratefully and leave the room. When she returned to her house, she felt tired, the fact of having seen her friend almost unconscious made her feel despair. She knew that it would be a long wait, in which she would only think of Juana.

My mother knew something was up, because the egg lady's look seemed suspicious to her. She thought that she was exaggerating and that it was better not to worry, but no matter how hard she tried she always ended up thinking of her blessed look. She decided to put on her thickest jacket and go for a walk, she thought that breathing in the night breeze would help her clear her head. So, trying not to make too much noise, she opened the window of her room and slipped through the patio of the house. Without meaning to, she realized that she was walking directly to the house of the lady with the eggs. She felt a paralyzing fear when she found herself so alone in the town, but the memory of her friend motivated her to continue.

When she was finally near the house, she thought about turning around, knowing that she was not welcome. However, the memory of her friend made her keep walking, because she knew that she needed her. When she found herself in front of the door of the house, she tried to look out the window. She was surprised to be able to see the entire kitchen, as the lantern in the corner blurred the dirt on the window.

When leaning her face against the window, she was disappointed not to see her friend lying down. She thought that perhaps they had put her to sleep, or being a little more optimistic, they had already sent her to rest at her house. However, before she could tear herself away from the scene, she noticed a red puddle near the table. It was a thick liquid that, if her intuition was right, must be blood.

She did not want to think the worst, but the circumstances did not allow her to assume otherwise. It only occurred to her to go into the house and make sure that it was not blood, she did not know what else to do, because she did not want to involve anyone else in this incongruous situation. She was about to push the door open when a man ran through the room, carrying some dead chickens on her shoulder and asking where he should leave them. My mother calmed down assuming that the spilled blood was from one of those chickens.

However, she freaked out upon hearing her name in the conversation. The man asked the woman of the eggs what they were going to do with my mother, since they knew that she was the only one who had seen Juana in the house. A question that made her understand that unfortunately that blood on the floor was of her friend. While she cried silently, she saw how the man asked the woman where they would bury the bodies, to which she replied that of course in the same place as always and, if someone asked him, he should say that the chickens were sick.

I finally understood why they needed chickens. Being the perfect excuse to dig a grave, in which they would bury the "sick" chickens and incidentally, Juana's corpse. When the man asked her again what they were going to do with my mother, the woman entered the room, and she kept thinking. She could tell that she had no answer, because she knew that it would be impossible to hide that situation, since the reason for Juana's absence was obvious. To which she replied that she had to convince her that Juana had escaped from her, that she had ignored everyone's pleas and had gone to the capital, tired of the simplicity of the town and aspiring to a better future.

To which he replied to the woman that surely, she would not believe them, because if she had aborted it was precisely so that she could stay in the town. To which the woman with a shout told him, then tell me what should we do? Stop criticizing and propose something, which a long time ago you stopped being beautiful enough to give yourself the pleasure of not thinking. Then she sat in an armchair and with her palms facing the roof, she tried to vent. She began to say a monologue in which she cursed the moment Juana asked her for help. But she, at the same time, felt sorry for her, remembering her promise to help those women who suffered the same situation that she once suffered. A promise that she, until that day, was proud to keep.

She knew that she should have said no right away, but Juana's innocence ended up convincing her. Knowing that she, that girl, would not bear what a pregnancy meant at school, much less in a town as Catholic as that one. Having to get used to the fact that all her town called her a slut and that, in her church, they would not let her enter because they considered her a sinful woman. From all those sufferings of hers and many others, the woman with the eggs wanted to protect her. Well, after all, she knew that, if it wasn't with her, the poor girl would even try it on her own, because she recognized in her eyes that it was already a decision made by her.

When they finished, she thought that the intervention had been a success, since the results were similar to the usual ones. Just minutes after they were done, my mother came through the door asking for Juana. She received her impatiently, as they would have wanted no one to find out about it. When dispatching my mother, the lady with the eggs went out to do a few things, with the tranquility of having fulfilled her duty. However, when she returned to her house, she found Juana nearly dead, suffering from a hemorrhage.

Immediately she tried to wake her up, to which she responded with ramblings, she could tell how much she was suffering. She thought about taking her to the hospital, not caring that the town found out about the secret they shared. However, as soon as she decided to take her, she realized that it was already too late, that Juana was no longer in this world. She was impressed by still feeling strength in Juana's hand, so when she released her, she told her to rest, that at least she would no longer suffer.

As a survival instinct, she thought of burring her where the chickens were always buried, being a secluded place in the mountains where no one would find it. She began to plan everything with her husband, they even debated what to tell my mother if she asked them, but it was at that moment that the lady with the eggs realized that she was only a good person pretending to be a criminal. So, she tried to calm down while looking at Juana's beautiful face, in which today more than ever, the innocence of her soul was reflected. Sobbing, she told her husband that she would give Juana a holy burial, not caring that it meant that she would have to spend the last years of her life locked up in a cell. My mother, after seeing that scene, went crying to her house.

When she arrived at her house, she did not know what to do, because she knew that no one would have wanted such a tragic fate, but sadly, it had already happened. So, as a way to help herself cope, she began to write in her journal everything she had seen and heard. During her story, she did not omit details, because she knew that the more precise she was, the better it would allow her to explain the situation and, why not, understand how to deal with it. During her writing, she put herself in the shoes of the egg lady, she understood her, because she knew that her intention was always to help Juana. Although she continued to think that burying her with her chickens was unacceptable, she knew that she would surely end up in jail and she recognized the maturity with which she was facing the situation.

After writing those pages, she felt a little calmer. Without noticing it, her eyes began to close, only until that moment, she felt all the tiredness of the day. She inadvertently began to fall asleep; her weakness was such that she could not even put on her pajamas when she felt exhausted in bed. Her mother woke her up because she had slept more than she should and was already late for school. She got ready as she could, and she left her house without having breakfast and without saying goodbye to anyone. She followed her usual route through a few streets, until after a few minutes she ran off in the direction of the egg lady house. Upon arrival, she realized that there were some policemen guarding the house, and that they had put a yellow tape around it.

As she got closer, she saw that the egg lady was talking to the policemen, as if she was explaining the incident to them. When my mother asked a curious person about what had happened, he told her that the egg lady had turned herself in, because a girl had supposedly died in her house the night before.

reflections

I always wanted to know Juana's story. A girl who suffered firsthand the consequences of a country that limits people who don't think like the majority. This is a story that is repeated in many of the Colombian towns, in which the names and the circumstances of the events have minimal variations, but where necessity is always the trigger.

These types of thoughts are the ones that accompany me throughout my daily routine at home. Where I see my mother smile at me as she makes our boss a beetroot soup. I watch her fix her eyes on the mix of her as she lets her mind wander into her ocean of memories. My mother has sheltered more and more in the kitchen, where she can give herself the pleasure of making almost unconscious movements, having made the same recipes for almost four decades.

Faced with society, my mother's life is far from being envied, but it is accepted. A life where she fights to give me a different future. An escape from the monotony, the superficial gestures and the looks of sorrow that torment his days. But it is that life demands this type of attitude, knowing that one of the purest ways to love is to fight for a better life for children. This is why I sometimes wonder, am I exaggerating? Am I idealizing life? I still do not know. But at the same time I can't stop thinking about the life that my mother stopped living because I was born. In the dreams she stopped fighting for, in the experiences she stopped living to focus on me. I am divided.

At least I have something clear, the people who reject abortion I consider hypocrites. Perceiving that, for them, the only innocent baby is the one that has not been born. Well, from the moment one of these beings emerges from the entrails of her mother, it seems that they lose all purity. Well, they enjoy it by attributing to it all those aberrations with which society caricatures low-income people. By ceasing to be seen as a blessing and automatically becoming one more burden to society.

From the moment these babies are born, they lose all appeal to the people who fought vigorously for their lives. Despite the fact that his birth is the materialization of his goal, they don't care about them. I don't think they bothered to go meet any of those souls they were crying out for. What awaits these children? If the same society that once "loved" them is the first to reject them. By arriving in the world in disadvantaged conditions, for the sole argument that there have always been exceptions and that it is always possible to cope with adverse circumstances. But how frequent are these exceptions? The margin of error is minimal for those who succeed.

Why do they cling to the lives of unborn babies, if there are millions abandoned in orphanages? The need for affection of these children is infinite, in any case, people only focus on those who still do not see, on those who still do not hear suffering. But some say that you can be killing a genius, and it is true, but is it necessary to condemn hundreds in order to hope for a miracle? I doubt it is.

On the other hand, I think that the biggest sin of a society is to pass on its mistakes to the new generations, which are generally caused by a misinterpretation of their fears. An example of this can be seen in religion, which has been used as a shield against a life that melts us with fear. Because we are unable to reconcile with the constant uncertainty that living demands of us, for which we prefer to reassure ourselves with an absolute and unquestionable truth. That is why such radical positions, such as that of the church against abortion, are so difficult to debate in Colombia.

It is impossible for me to think that someone would like the idea of abortion, it is interrupting a natural process. Likewise, and at the risk of being branded as incoherent, I consider even worse the fact of forcing someone to have an unwanted child and, in most cases, far from the appropriate conditions. By generating a burden for the family and a feeling of guilt for the unborn baby. And, as if that were not enough, people's pleasure is being conditioned by defending a position that radiates tradition, but not intelligence.

12 of June 2022

Andrés Sossa