“If your father comes back before the wedding, he can sleep in the storage shed. Nobody needs to find out he was in prison.”
Claudia, my sister-in-law, uttered those cruel words right in front of her mother’s portrait. My husband, Rafael, didn’t contradict her. Neither did Uncle Arnulfo, the man who was always obsessed with “protecting the family name.” I stared at the opened letter and felt as though my fourteen years with this family were suddenly tearing in two.
My name is Mónica Castañeda. I was 39 years old and worked as an accountant near Alvarado, Veracruz. Rafael and I lived with our two children, Paula and Emiliano, in the home belonging to my father-in-law, Don Eusebio Montiel. He had been spent the last five years in prison, convicted for the alleged embezzlement of funds meant to pay 27 local corn farmers.
Ever since his sentencing, the entire town treated him like a disgrace. My mother-in-law passed away without ever getting to hug him goodbye. Iván, the youngest son, vanished right after the trial. Nobody knew where he was.
Yet, I never forgot how Don Eusebio stood up for me on my wedding day when others mocked the second-hand earrings my mother had given me. He even sold his cattle when I suffered a severe hemorrhage after giving birth to Emiliano. To him, I was never just “the poor daughter-in-law.” I was his daughter.
That is why it hurt so deeply when I found the letter tucked away in a drawer at Rafael’s shop. Don Eusebio was writing to let us know he would be released on November 27th. They had received it three weeks ago. My husband had hidden it on purpose.
“Were you really going to let a 68-year-old man travel over 500 kilometers all by himself?” I asked him.
“Don’t make a drama out of this,” Rafael replied coldly. “Santiago is getting married next month. If the bride’s wealthy family finds out about my dad, they could cancel the whole wedding.”
That evening, we sat down with Claudia, Santiago, and Uncle Arnulfo. Not a single one of them wanted to go pick him up. They claimed the bus was perfectly fine, that the town would gossip, and that his return could wait. Claudia even suggested cleaning out the dusty old shed next to the chicken coop so her father wouldn’t set foot inside the main house until after the wedding was over.
“This house is in his name,” I reminded them angrily. “And you want to hide the owner out in the yard?”
Rafael slammed his fist against the table. “My father has already ruined our lives enough!”
Even young Santiago kept his head down in silence. The next morning, I took time off work, checked the car, and bought necessary medications, warm clothes, and a pair of brand-new sandals. Rafael stood in front of the gate to block my path.
“If you leave, don’t say I didn’t warn you about what you’re going to cause.”
“I’m going because there is still someone in this house who remembers everything he did for us,” I said, driving away.
I covered the 538 kilometers to the prison facility. At noon on November 27th, I saw Don Eusebio walk through the heavy gates carrying a simple cloth bag. His hair was completely white, and his shoes were worn thin. He looked around nervously, realized no one else had come, and quietly started walking toward the bus station.
I ran over and embraced him tightly. He immediately asked about his children, and I lied, telling him they were busy with work. Once inside the car and a few miles down the road, he pulled a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket and whispered softly:
“Don’t take me back to the house just yet. Take me to this address before three o’clock, and don’t say a word to Rafael.”
Written on that paper was the name of the brother who had been missing for five long years: Iván Montiel.
I couldn’t believe what I was about to discover.
(The true reason behind Don Eusebio’s imprisonment is about to be exposed! Click “Next Page” to continue reading…)
