For a brief moment after weeks of loneliness, I felt like things could be all right. But boy, I was wrong.
Veronica was a different story altogether. She’d smile at me every now and then and that was pretty much the interaction between the two of us. I don’t know why, but I felt like that smile was reserved for people who annoyed her and she didn’t really liked. Was I wrong about my gut feeling? Honestly, during those times of grief, I just hoped I was, because I didn’t have the strength to deal with her.
Whenever she was around, she would mumble something vague about timing before she left the place. I did my best to be invisible for her. I stayed in the guest room and tried not to get out unless I really needed something. Although I needed to rest, I cleaned after myself, and thanked her profoundly for every meal she prepared for me. But despite my efforts, I could feel I bothered her because of something, and although she never really said anything, her gestures were tying to send a message that I wasn’t welcome there.
Dad, however, loved me around. He would sit beside my bed and massage my swollen feet, tell stories of when I was a baby, and tease me. I felt secure with him by my side, and for a short time, I dared, just dared, to think that everything was going to be just fine.
Then dad got sick.
It was sudden. One day he was reading next to me, and the following day he was gone. Just like that. Gone. No goodbye, no last words, just silence. I lost my father when I needed him the most.
Two days after the funeral, Veronica showed her true colors. I was still in pajamas, trying to get down a piece of toast, when she entered the kitchen. She was so dressed up I though she was getting ready for a wedding.
She did not ask how I was or offered any consolation or condolences.
“You should start packing,” she said, like she was reporting the weather instead of condemning me to the streets.
I was taken aback. “What?” I asked.
“You have 36 hours,” Veronica said, like it was no big deal, like she was pouring herself a glass of mid-morning wine. “This place is mine now. I don’t want you here. I don’t want your…bastards here.”
My stomach dropped. “Veronica, I’m due in two weeks. What am I supposed to do?”
“Motel? Shelter? Not my problem. You’re not squatting in my house. You’re not raising those babies in my house.”
