PART 1
‘If Mom asks, we tell her Dad wanted a quick cremation. With how broken she is, she won’t even remember,’ Ricardo said, standing next to the casket, as if discussing canceling an appointment.
Inés Castañeda’s hands froze.
The funeral home was in an old mansion in the American Colony, Guadalajara. There were white flowers, votive candles, coffee on the stove, and people whispering that Don Esteban Robles had been a hard worker.
For 46 years, Inés saw him get up before dawn to open his auto parts store. Then came 3 convenience stores, 2 houses in Zapopan, a plot in Tequila, and a family business that Esteban cared for like another child.
But his true sons, Ricardo and Darío, no longer looked at him as a father.
They looked at him as inheritance.
Ricardo received hugs with a serious face, a fancy suit, and a shiny watch. Darío paced back and forth, faking nervousness, but Inés noticed something that pierced her chest: neither of them had truly cried.
‘Poor Mrs. Inés,’ a neighbor whispered. ‘At least she has her boys.’
Inés looked down.
For months, ‘her boys’ took more from her than they gave.
First, they told her she couldn’t drive anymore because she was ‘old.’ Then they started reviewing her bank statements. Later, Ricardo insisted she sign a power of attorney ‘in case she got sick.’ Darío kept telling her to sell the big house, that it was too much responsibility for a 69-year-old woman.
Esteban had noticed.
‘Don’t let them scare you, Inesita,’ he said one night. ‘When a son uses love to rush you into signing, he’s not taking care of his mother. He’s measuring how much he needs to take everything.’
Three days later, Esteban fell beside the breakfast table.
The coffee cup was on the floor.
Dr. Aurelio Montalvo, Ricardo’s friend, arrived too quickly. He checked Esteban, touched his neck, and said:
‘Sudden heart attack. There’s nothing left to do.’
Ricardo organized everything in less than 2 hours: funeral home, death certificate, mass, and cremation by 8 am.
‘Dad didn’t want to be buried,’ he repeated.
Inés never heard that from Esteban.
Near midnight, when people started leaving, she approached the casket. Her husband’s face was behind the glass, pale, still, with his mouth almost open.
Inés put her palm on the wood.
‘Old stubborn one,’ she whispered. ‘You said I’d go first.’
Esteban opened his eyes.
Inés felt the world creaking beneath her feet.
It wasn’t imagination. It wasn’t the reflection of the votive candles. Esteban looked at her with fear, lifted his finger, and brought it to his lips.
Silence.
She wanted to scream, but Ricardo appeared behind her.
‘What are you doing, Mom?’ he asked.
Inés grabbed the casket.
‘I got dizzy.’
Darío took her arm with too much force.
‘You’re seeing things. Better sit down.’
Inés looked at him. She didn’t hear concern in his voice.
She heard hurry.
Later, in the Zapopan house, Ricardo brought her a cup of chamomile tea.
‘Drink it all. Tomorrow you need to be calm.’
Inés got close to sniff it.
Under the sweet scent was a metallic bitterness, identical to the coffee Esteban drank before ‘dying.’
She pretended to drink, but let the liquid fall onto a hidden napkin in her skirt.
Darío left a white pill on his desk.
‘The doctor said this will make you sleep,’ he said.
Inés hid the pill under her tongue, swallowed water, and waited.
When her sons left, she rushed to the bathroom and spat out the pill.
Then she heard voices in the hallway.
‘Montalvo arrived early with the final death certificate,’ Ricardo said. ‘Mr. Baeza has the guardianship of Mom ready.’
Darío trembled.
‘And what if Dad wakes up before the furnace?’ he asked.
Inés held onto the sink.
They weren’t saying goodbye to her husband.
They were sending him alive to the cremation.
