She didn’t call ahead to warn her husband or her son. In her bag she carried a few vegetables, a piece of meat and some food that they both liked; Clara just wanted to cook them something warm like breakfast.
As she climbed the stairs of the building, the silence struck her and left her paralyzed. There was no music, no television, nothing at all. She knocked on the door once. Then she knocked a little harder. No one answered.
Clara frowned. “These two…” He approached the door and knocked: “Knock… knock… knock…” Strangely, nobody opened the door even though it was almost 11 noon. She waited a moment, but didn’t see her husband or her son come out to open it. Then Clara looked through her things to find the house key. Since she hadn’t used it for a while, it didn’t take her long to find it. Clara opened the door. The first thing that surprised her was that the house was still clean and tidy in a strange way, or as she imagined, a place made messy by the lack of a woman’s hand. Clara advanced, gently placing the bags on the table. Then she saw him. A pair of delicate, low-heeled women’s shoes leaning against the wall. She froze. They weren’t hers. She knew it with an unwavering, almost physical certainty. She had never worn low-heeled shoes. A thought crossed her mind: “Will the two of you plan to buy me a surprise gift?” Clara approached and picked up the shoes to examine them. They appeared to have been worn… and especially, they were different from the style she preferred. More striking, stranger. Clara swallowed. Whose could it be…? His heart began to beat faster than normal. He walked toward the hallway, each step shorter than the one before, as if the floor could collapse at any moment. The door to the master bedroom was ajar. He approached and pushed the door, shouting loudly: “What…?” He stopped. The morning light filtered in, casting irregular shadows on the bed. The sheets were wrinkled. There were two people. Or at least that’s what it seemed at first. Clara didn’t really know what she was seeing. Not right away. There was something that wasn’t right. He took another step. The silence ceased to be silence. It was something else. More so. Heavier. “Who’s there…?” Nobody answered. So, a detail. Small. Significant. But sufficient. Clara felt her hands tremble. She took another step, almost without realizing it. Suddenly, she found it hard to breathe. And at that moment, he understood what he was about to discover… by Iowa It wasn’t going to be something small. Clara moved to the edge of the bed. She didn’t scream. Not yet. There was something in her chest that wouldn’t let her, as if the air was stuck. He extended his hand. Doubt. She withdrew it. Then, almost in anger towards herself, she grabbed the corner of the sheet and lifted it up suddenly. A lock of hair. Long. Dark. Not mine. That was all. He didn’t need to see any more. His body hardened, as if someone had replaced his blood with glass. For a second, two, three… nothing. No thought. No logic. Only a raw, direct, almost animalistic sensation. Then he saw. A wave. Calieпte. Violeta. Clara dropped the sheet as if it were burning. She took a step back, then another. Her breathing became ragged. She wasn’t crying. She wasn’t screaming. It was worse. It was that kind of silence that comes before breaking something. Turn. He left the room. He walked to the living room without looking back. Each step firmer, heavier. The house, so tidy a few minutes ago, now seemed to him like a well-arranged lie. He looked around. His eyes were fixed on the broom, leaning against the wall. She went straight to her. She took it. He did not lift it immediately. He held it for a few seconds, as if that simple object needed to become something more, an extension of what it felt like. “Of course… of course…” he murmured, almost without a voice. The ideas were jumbled together. Images, suspicions, memories that now seemed suspicious. How long? Since when? Who was that woman? In her bed? In her house? He squeezed the broom with more force. The wood creaked slightly under his hand. He went back to the hallway. Each step was different now. They were no longer short. They were decisive. Hard. As if each footstep were an answer. He stopped in front of the door. His breathing was heavy.
He raised the broom. And just that moment— A door opened behind her. “Clara?” The voice. I knew her too well. He turned around. Her husband was there, coming out of his son’s room, his hair disheveled, his face still marked by sleep. It took him less than a second to understand what he saw. Clara, with the broom up high. The bedroom door was open. Silence. “Clara, wait!” He lunged towards her. Too fast. He grabbed her arm just as she began to lower the broom. “Let me go!” Clara shouted, now her voice breaking and heavy with emotion. He didn’t let her go. “Listen to me, please!” “Listen to you?! What do I have to listen to you?!” Iпsteпtó tried to break away, but he held her with more force, without hurting her, but without giving in. “Matthew!” he shouted toward the other room. “Wake up! Now!” Uп movimieпto deпtro del cuarto. Sniff of sheets. A somпolieпsta voice. “What’s wrong…?” Clara stopped fighting for a second. That second was enough. Mateo appeared at the door, disheveled, confused, still half asleep. And behind him— The woman. The same. Her dark hair fell over her shoulders, her eyes suddenly open, disoriented. Clara felt that something inside her was breaking again. But different. It wasn’t the same fury as a few seconds ago. It was… something more complicated. More uncomfortable. More difficult to sustain. “Mom…?” said Mateo, his voice still caught between sleep and surprise. Nobody spoke for a few seconds. Nobody knew where to begin. Clara stopped struggling. The broom went down slowly. Her husband carefully let go of her arm, as if he feared that any sudden movement would set everything off again. “Come on…” he said, his voice lower now. “Let’s go to the living room. Everyone.” Clara didn’t reply. But he walked. She sat in the chair, rigid, without looking at anyone. Mateo and the girl sat together, almost touching, as if the space between them could protect them from something. Clara’s husband stood for a few seconds, then he sat down too, but on the edge, still. The air was heavy. Heavy. “Clara…” he began. She raised her hand. “No.” Her voice came out dry. “First… someone tell me who she is.” Brief silence. Mateo swallowed. “She’s… my girlfriend.” The word remained floating.
Read Part 2 Here: [Part2] Today, around 11 a.m., Clara returned home after
