My youngest son, who’s a pilot, called me. “Mom, something strange is happening. My sister-in-law is home.” “Yes,” I replied. “She’s in the shower.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Impossible, because I have her passport in my hands. She just boarded my flight to France.” At that moment, I heard footsteps behind me. “I’m glad you’re here.”

This morning, like any other day, I was rushing to wash the dishes after breakfast. Esteban, my oldest son, had left for work early, leaving the house silently for my grandson Mateo; that clever little seven-year-old devil had also been taken by the school bus.

And Araceli, my daughter-in-law, Esteban’s wife, had just come up the stairs. Her soft voice reached my mother. I’m going to take a shower. Yes. I nodded, smiling.

I had barely finished arranging the last plate. When the landline rang, I dried my hands on my apron and walked quickly to answer Iván’s cheerful, young voice. My youngest son filled the line.

“Mom, I’m just calling to say hello. I had a little free time during a layover at the airport.”

Hearing his voice was like a hug for my heart. Iván is my pride, a young copilot always on the go, living the childhood dream of conquering the skies.

I smiled and asked him a few things about his flight, about how he was.

He laughed loudly and told me everything was going well, that work was going smoothly.

But suddenly his tone changed, as if hesitant to say anything. “Hey, Mom, something really weird happened. My sister-in-law is home.”

I was surprised. I looked toward the stairs where the running water in the bathroom could still be heard.

“Of course, son. Araceli is upstairs taking a shower.”, I answered very confidently.

Araceli had spoken to me less than ten minutes earlier and was wearing that white blouse she always wore around the house.

“How could I have been wrong?”

But on the other end of the line, Iván remained silent for a long time, so much so that I could even hear his breathing. Then his voice became very serious, full of astonishment.

“Mom, it’s impossible because I have her passport here in my hand. She just got on my flight to France.”

I started to laugh, thinking he must have been mistaken.

“Oh, son, you must have been mistaken her for someone else. I just saw Araceli. She even told me she was going to take a shower.”

I tried to explain calmly to calm him down, but he didn’t laugh.

He didn’t answer me like always. He told me in a slow voice, as if he were trying to organize the story in his head, that when all the passengers had boarded, he ran out to look for some papers he’d forgotten and by chance found a passport lying near the boarding gate.

At first, he thought about giving it to the airport staff, but when he opened it to see who it belonged to, he froze.

The photo was Araceli’s. Her name was there, clearly. There was no mistaking it.

My heart started beating faster, but I tried to remain calm. “Are you sure, Iván? That passport could belong to someone else.”

I told him, although a tinge of unease had already lodged in me. Iván sighed, and his voice was now a mixture of bewilderment and firmness.

“Mom, I just went down to the passenger cabin to check if it’s her. She’s sitting in first class next to a man who looks very rich and elegant. They were talking very closely, as if they were a couple.”

Iván’s words were like a st:ab wound. I froze, clutching the phone receiver in my head, spinning around as if they were a couple. Impossible. I had just heard Araceli’s voice from the floor above. I had just seen her in the flesh in this very house.

But just at that moment, the sound of water in the bathroom stopped. The door on the fourth floor was heard opening, and Araceli’s voice came down the stairs.

Softly, but loud enough to make me jump.

“Mom! Who’s speaking?”, she panicked.

My heart was pounding so hard I felt like it was going to jump out of my chest. I quickly answered a friend’s call, my voice shaking, and I quickly ran into the living room to avoid Araceli’s gaze, who was peeking her head out of the stairs, her hair still dripping wet.

I closed the door and whispered into the phone, trying not to let my nervousness show.

“Iván, I just heard Araceli. She’s here. She just showered. Are you sure you didn’t make a mistake?”

On the other end, Iván fell silent again, then his voice grew harsher.

“Mom, it’s impossible. I have her right in front of me on this plane. I can see her clearly.”

I remained silent, my mind blank. I hung up the phone, my hands shaking so much I almost dropped the receiver.

The living room suddenly felt stifling, even though the sun was shining brightly outside. I sank into the armchair, trying to breathe deeply, but my chest felt tight with an unanswered question.

If Araceli was here? Who was the woman on Iván’s flight? What if the woman on the flight was Araceli?

Who was the person in my house?

A few minutes later, Araceli came down to the kitchen.

“Mom, I’m going to the market early today. Do you want me to get you some vegetables or something?” Her voice was kind, familiar, as if nothing out of the ordinary was happening.

I looked at her, trying to force a smile, but inside, I felt as if I were carrying stones.

“Yes, get some tomatoes, please,” I answered, my throat dry.

Araceli picked up her palm basket and left the house.

I stood there, watching her leave, my soul reeling. I didn’t believe Iván was lying to me. My son had no reason to make up such a story. He’s always been an upright boy, very sensitive and loving to his family.

But Araceli, the daughter-in-law I’ve lived with for so many years, was also standing before me. Flesh and blood. Unmistakable.

I asked myself. Had I missed something? Was there a secret in this house that I, an old woman, had never noticed?

I sat silently in the living room as the midday light filtered through the curtains, casting faint swathes of light on the tile floor.

The old armchair where I always sit, knitting or reading stories to Mateo. Now it also seemed heavier. Iván’s call kept echoing in my head. Each of his words was like a hammer blow to my heart. I looked around the room where the family photos of Esteban and Araceli hung on their wedding day.

Mateo, a newborn, and Iván’s radiant smile when he first put on his pilot’s uniform. All those memories now seemed covered in a hazy mist, blurred and filled with doubt.

I am Estela Márquez, a 65-year-old widow living in a quiet, middle-class neighborhood in Mexico City.

My husband, Don Rafael, passed away ten years ago, leaving me with two children I love more than life itself. Esteban, the oldest, is a hardworking architect, always immersed in his plans and projects. Iván, the youngest, is my pride and joy for making his dream of becoming a pilot come true. My life revolves around Esteban’s small family, my daughter-in-law Araceli, my grandson Mateo.

And the peaceful days in this house. Araceli, my daughter-in-law, was always the perfect model in my eyes. She was beautiful, hardworking, always impeccable. From the way she dressed to the way she cared for Mateo.

I thought how lucky I was to have a daughter-in-law like her. After Araceli left for the market, I sat there, unconsciously clutching the edge of the tablecloth. Iván’s call made me revisit small details that had previously seemed normal.

There were days when Araceli would leave the house saying she was going to the market or to see a friend, but when she returned, she seemed like a different person. One day she was all sweetness, hugging Mateo and singing him to sleep. But other days she was in a bad mood and yelled at me just because I forgot to put the salt shaker back.

I used to think it was just the mood swings of a young woman. But now I wasn’t so sure. My heart was in knots, as if someone were stirring up all the memories I treasured so dearly. I remember once, a few months ago, Araceli picked up a pen to write the grocery list with her right hand.

Her handwriting was very straight and careful, but the next day I saw her using her left hand, and she was writing with more scrawls as if she weren’t used to it. I asked her, “Since when do you write with your other hand, mija?” She laughed and quickly replied, “Oh, no more. I’m practicing for fun, Mom.”

I nodded without giving it any more importance, but now that detail had become a sharp object in my mind.

I was lost in my thoughts when I heard the door open.

Mateo came running in with his backpack, dancing on his back. He hugged me tightly, saying in his little sparrow voice, “Grandma. Today the teacher congratulated me because I drew so beautifully.”

I stroked her head, trying to smile, but I still felt a weight in my chest. Mateo sat down and took out his notebook to show me.

Grandma. Look, yesterday my mom helped me do my homework with her right hand, and her handwriting turned out really nice. But today he wrote with his left hand, and it came out uglier. The boy pointed to two pages in his notebook, one with neat handwriting and the other with crooked handwriting. I looked at the letters and felt my heart sink.

“Your mom must have been busy today. She must have been tired, and that’s why she wrote like that”, I told him, trying to hide my confusion.

But Mateo looked up with his innocent eyes. “Grandma, my mom is very strange. Some days she hugs me really, really tight, but other days she doesn’t even look at me.”

My grandson’s words were another stab in the back. I hugged him, trying to comfort him, but everything was starting to get tangled up in my head.

Just at that moment, the doorbell rang. I got up, opened the door, and saw Doña Remedios, my good neighbor, standing there with the plate Araceli had brought her the day before.

She smiled at me with that usual kind smile, but her eyes were filled with curiosity. “Estela, how lovely your daughter-in-law is.”

But yesterday I realized that she gave me the plate with her left hand, and according to what you told me, she’s right-handed, right? How strange. Or is it that she uses both hands?

I forced a smile and replied, “Maybe Remedios wants to come in for some tea.” She nodded and went in, but her comment stuck in my head like a thorn. It wasn’t just me; even the neighbors had noticed the difference. I poured her tea.

We chatted about anything and everything, but as soon as she left, I collapsed into the armchair with my hand on my chest.
I froze, feeling like the world was collapsing around me. That afternoon, I went out into the garden, watering can in hand, trying to make the water fall gently on the daisies I’ve tended for years. The sun was beginning to set. The shadows of the trees lengthened across the yard, but my soul couldn’t find peace.

Mateo’s words, Doña Remedios’s, and Iván’s firm voice on the phone continued to swirl around in my head like pebbles thrown into a calm lake, creating ripples that wouldn’t stop. I watered the plants, but my mind wasn’t there. I wondered, “Am I too old to notice

the strange things happening in my own house? Or have I deliberately turned a blind eye, wanting to believe in the happy family I always dreamed of?” Araceli returned from the market carrying her palm basket.

But what caught my attention was that she was holding it with her left hand. I remembered perfectly well that Araceli always used her right hand, from the way she held the knife to chop vegetables to the way she combed Mateo’s hair. I stood there, watching her put the basket on the kitchen table and quietly asked her, “What did you buy, Araceli?” My voice tried to sound natural, but inside, a wave of suspicion was growing.

She smiled and answered very politely. “Yes, Mom. I brought some tomatoes, cilantro, and a fresh fish. Tonight I’m going to prepare the grilled fish you like. Is that okay?”

Her voice was soft, as always, but I couldn’t help but notice her hands. Her left one? No, her right. I nodded and turned away, pretending to clear the table.

But my heart was pounding. Was I imagining things, or were these little details trying to tell me something? At dinner time, the whole family gathered at the table. Esteban was tired after a long day at work, but he still smiled at Mateo and asked him how school was going.

Araceli ate slowly, delicately, and even turned to Esteban to remind him of my love. Next week is Mateo’s parent-teacher meeting, so you can save the day. I looked at her trying to find the daughter-in-law I was so proud of, but in my head Ivan’s voice kept echoing.

She’s sitting in first class next to a man.

I bit my lip, trying to swallow my anguish, but it felt like a stone stuck in my throat. Just three days later, everything was different. Mateo dropped a glass of water during dinner, and water splashed all over the tablecloth. I quickly grabbed a rag to clean it up, laughing. “It’s okay, son. Just be more careful.” But Araceli, sitting across from him, suddenly frowned and said sharply.

“Mateo, why are you so clumsy? Be more careful.” I stared at Esteban. He frowned back and said in a low voice. “Araceli, it was an accident. Nothing more.” She turned around, a spark of anger in her eyes. “You always defend him, and I’m left looking like the meanie.” The atmosphere at the table became tense.

Mateo lowered his head, his eyes filling with tears. I hugged him, feeling a deep pain. It had only been a few days. Araceli tenderly reminded him about school, and now he seemed like a completely different person. I sat next to him, watching silently, trying to put the pieces together in my head. Today

he was irritable. The other day he was a sweetheart. Today he used his left hand.

The other day his right. These small differences, one by one, accumulated in my mind, like pieces of a puzzle I still couldn’t see complete. I told myself I had to calm down, but every time I looked at Araceli, I saw a stranger, as if she weren’t the daughter-in-law I’d lived with for so many years.

A few days later, I took Mateo to school. He held my hand as we walked down the usual cobblestone street. Suddenly, he stopped, looked at me, and said in a sad voice, “Grandma.” Yesterday my mom taught me how to write. And she was very patient. Her handwriting turned out beautifully, but today she didn’t even want to look at my homework.

She told me to do it myself. I bent down to look into his pale little eyes and felt my heart sink. Your mom was busy. “My son, don’t be sad,” I said, but my voice was shaking. Mateo nodded, but his gaze was still filled with disappointment. I hugged him, feeling incredibly helpless. He’s only
seven years old.

How could I understand something I couldn’t even decipher? That night we sat down to dinner again. Suddenly, Araceli took a small notebook out of her bag and began to write something with her left hand. Esteban, who was serving himself food, suddenly laughed. “Hey. Since when do you write with your left hand?”

You look fine, weirdo. Araceli stopped dead in her tracks, a forced smile on her lips.

Oh, no more. I’m testing my love. She quickly put the notebook back in her bag, but I could see a flash of panic in her eyes. Esteban shook his head and said nothing more. But I knew he’d noticed something strange too.

I sat there, gripping the spoon, trying to keep a straight face, but inside, doubts grew like a slow fire. One morning, I took the empty spice jar and crossed the usual cobblestone street to go to Doña Remedios’s house. Araceli had borrowed it a few weeks earlier, saying it was to make the mole poblano that Esteban likes so much. I knocked on the door, and Doña Remedios opened the door with her usual friendly smile.

Estela, come in. Let me make you some coffee, she said, still holding a rag. I gave her the jar, intending to thank her and leave, but she pulled me to sit on a wooden chair in her kitchen. The atmosphere was warm, smelling of roasted coffee, but I couldn’t relax. Doña Remedioslooked at me with doubtful eyes and lowered her voice. Estela, don’t get angry about what I’m about to tell you.

Your daughter-in-law has changed her character. One day she greets me nicely, happily, and even asks about my children. But yesterday she stopped by. I signaled to her, and she didn’t even notice me, as if she didn’t know me. Doña Remedios’s words were like another stone in the troubled lake of my heart. I forced a smile and answered.

She must have been in a hurry.

Remedios, you see how young people are these days, but inside I was a mess. I knew Doña Remedios wasn’t just talking. She’s a very sentimental person, always paying attention to details. If even she noticed how strange Araceli was, then my suspicions were no longer just my imagination.
I stayed a little longer. I took a sip of coffee. It was cold by then, and I said goodbye to leave, feeling heavy-hearted. On the way back, I stopped by Don José’s bakery, where I always buy sweet bread for Mateo. Don José was serving, and when he saw me, he smiled. “Doña Estela, what are we going to give the champion today?” I asked for some

conchitas, and suddenly he asked me, “You’re Esteban’s mother, aren’t you?” His wife came the other day, very friendly. She even told me how delicious my bread was.
But this morning she came back with a sour face. She bought the bread and didn’t even say thank you. She left straight away. I stiffened, clutching the handle of my bag. “She must have been tired, José,” I replied, my voice trembling. I thanked him quickly and left. Don José’s words

were another knife, cutting deeper into the doubts growing inside me.
When I got home, I made some tea and sat on the porch. The wind blew softly, carrying the scent of daisies from the garden. I looked toward the street that leads to the market, where Araceli always went. Suddenly, I saw her returning carrying her grocery bag, but she greeted me with a dry voice.

Good afternoon, Mom.
Without a smile, without the joy of yesterday, when she boasted that she’d gotten a cheap bunch of cilantro. I nodded and answered in a low voice. “Are you back yet?” But inside, I couldn’t help but watch her more closely. The blouse she was wearing today was navy blue, different from the white blouse she was wearing when

she left.
I tried to ask her in a soft voice. “Why did you change your blouse?” Araceli paused for a second and then answered quickly. “Oh, it’s because I got it dirty and had to change it.” She smiled half-heartedly and quickly went into the kitchen. I stood there with the cup of tea in my hands, feeling like a rock was crushing my chest.
The words from Doña Remedios, from Don José, and the way Araceli answered everything forced me to stop ignoring things. That night we were all having dinner. Mateo was telling me things about school in his cheerful little voice, but I noticed that Araceli just nodded without answering, like other times when

Esteban asked her, “Have you finished eating so your mom can clear the dishes?” Mateo suddenly turned to me and said innocently, “Grandma!” Oh, my mom didn’t sing me to sleep. Yesterday she did sing me the song, “Vejita,” that you always sing to me, and it sounds so beautiful.

I looked at Araceli, who was serving herself food without reacting, but Mateo’s words were like a pin prick in my heart. That lullaby, that beautiful little sky I used to sing to Esteban and Iván. Only Araceli and I knew it in this house. So why did she sing it yesterday and not today?

Why did she change so quickly? I got up to clear the dishes, but my mind was no longer there.

I remembered the times Araceli would leave the house saying she was going to see a friend, but come back with a strange look on her face. One day she brought a bouquet of fresh flowers saying it was a friend’s gift, but another day she got angry when I asked her, “Where did you go today that you came back so late?” I used to think they were unimportant things, but now they seemed like pieces of a much bigger secret. I didn’t want to believe Araceli was hiding something from me.
But every word, every gesture of hers, made me doubt. That night, after cleaning the kitchen, I sat at the dining room table and took an old notebook out of a drawer. My hand was shaking as I wrote the first line. 3:00 PM. Araceli goes to the market. She returns at 6:00 PM. She’s wearing a blue blouse. Irritable attitude.

I didn’t know what I was doing, but I knew I couldn’t keep pretending nothing was happening. I kept writing. Yesterday she sang Mateo to sleep, tenderly, today coldly. She didn’t sing to him. Each word was a heavy stroke, as if I were recording my suspicions in reality. My old notebook was now full of notes about Araceli.
Each letter was a piece of my doubt, as if I were painting a picture I didn’t dare look at. I sat in the kitchen, staring at the notebook with a heavy heart. I couldn’t keep all these thoughts inside. They were like waves rising and falling, leaving me alone in my confusion.

I needed someone to talk to. Someone who understood me, who wouldn’t judge me, who wouldn’t jump to conclusions.
I immediately thought of Carmela, my closest friend, the one who’s been with me since we were young, when we sat knitting under a tree and shared our stories. I picked up the phone, my voice trembling. “Carmela, are you free this afternoon? Let’s go to the little cafe on the corner. I need to talk.” Carmela instantly accepted her voice, as warm as ever.

Estela knew something was wrong with you. Wait for me. I’m on my way there. I felt a little relief, but the worry still weighed heavily on me. I put on my old shawl and left the house for the small café on the corner where Carmela and I had shared so many joys and sorrows.

The place was the same, with its dark wooden tables and that delicious smell of freshly roasted coffee. I chose a table in a corner where the lighting was dim so no one would hear our conversation. I sat there, cuddling the hot cup of coffee but with my soul frozen. I wondered how I was going to

tell her all these suspicions? How could I dare admit that I’m doubting my own daughter-in-law? Carmela arrived wearing a light sweater and carrying a bag of fresh vegetables.
She sat down and looked me straight in the eyes, with that sharp but loving gaze. No, Estela, just looking at your face. I know something serious is wrong with you. Come on, spill it. What’s causing you such a troubled soul? I took a deep breath, trying not to let my voice crack, but every word caught in my throat.

I told her everything in a nutshell.

Iván’s call from the airport, Araceli’s passport, the woman identical to her on the plane, and all the little details I’d noted, from how she switched hands when writing to her mood that changed from day to night. I took the notebook out of my bag and handed it to her. Look, I’ve written everything down here.

I don’t know if I’m imagining it, but I can’t play dumb anymore. Carmela turned the pages, frowning. She read her fingers slowly, tracing my shaky handwriting. “Have you noticed everything?” Estela said in a serious voice. “Every time she goes out and comes back, it’s like she’s someone else. What do you think

she is?” I shook my head, clutching my coffee cup.
“I don’t know, Carmela. All I know is that I’m scared.” Afraid that Araceli is hiding something. Afraid that my family will fall apart if I dig any deeper. But I can’t stop. I have to know the truth. For Esteban. For Mateo. Carmela put her cup on the table and looked at me determinedly. Women can’t be fooled.

Easy, Estela. What does your instinct tell you? I’m sure there’s something fishy going on here.
You have to get to the bottom of this. I hesitated, and my voice dropped to a whisper. But what if I’m misjudging her? What if I hurt Esteban? Carmela interrupted me firmly. Listen to your instinct. If you don’t uncover the truth, you’ll always live with doubt, and then you won’t be able to protect either Mateo orm Esteban.

Just at that moment, Doña María, the woman who sells vegetables at the market, whom I know, walked into the café, recognized me, and smiled. Doña Estela, what a coincidence! I saw your daughter-in-law at the market last week. She greeted me very kindly. She even bought me an extra bunch of cilantro for cooking. But today in the morning she came by again. Very serious. She didn’t even say hello. She bought her vegetables and left.

“Is something wrong with your daughter-in-law?” I forced a smile and answered. “She must be tired.” “Maria.” But inside, I felt like I was drowning. Yet another person, noticing how strange Araceli was being. I thanked Doña María. I watched her leave and turned to Carmela. “Sure.” With panic in my eyes, Carmela took my hand and her voice softened.

“You see, Estela, it’s not just you. Even the neighbors can tell. Don’t fool yourself anymore. Keep writing everything down. And if necessary, you’ll have to follow her. Not to hurt her, but to protect your family.” I nodded, but I felt my heart sink.

I knew Carmela was right, but the idea of ​​following my own daughter-in-law made me feel like I was betraying my family. I’ve spent my whole life taking care of this home, and now I had to do something I never imagined: investigate one of my own. That afternoon, I returned home still reeling.

Araceli came out of the house carrying her familiar blue basket. “Mom, I’m going to the market for a moment,” she said softly.

I nodded, but as soon as she disappeared behind the gate, I opened my notebook and wrote. 3:00 PM Araceli goes to the market. She’s carrying a blue basket. Normal attitude. I stood there, looking at the clock, counting every minute. At six, Araceli returned. But the basket she was holding was now red. I was

surprised and asked her, “Did you change your basket?” She smiled and answered, “Quickly, the other one broke, and a friend lent me this one.” I nodded.
But my hands were shaking as I added something to my notebook. “Back at 6:00 p.m. Bringing a red basket.” You were a little rushed. My notes were piling up. Each line was a step closer to the truth, but also a step away from the image of the old mother who only knows how to love and trust. The weekend

Esteban left for early work overtime, and Mateo was at school on an activity, leaving the house silent, just for me and Araceli.

I was clearing the dining room table, trying to keep busy to banish the doubts that were gnawing at me. But then Araceli came down from her 4th grade class wearing a pale yellow flowered dress, as fresh as she had been in her first days of marriage. “Mom, I’m going to the market for a bit,” she said in a soft voice.

She grabbed her usual palm basket and left. I nodded, smiling, but inside, a voice urged me on. Follow her, Estela, go find the truth.

I didn’t think twice. I grabbed my old shawl. I put it over my head to cover my face a little and silently left the house, keeping a safe distance behind Araceli. The sun was beating down, sweat soaking my back, but I didn’t care. I just wanted to know where she was really going, What she was doing.

Araceli walked quickly down the cobblestone street that leads to the market, but suddenly, instead of turning right like she always did, she turned left into an alley behind a working-class area. The houses were old, tightly packed together, with peeling paint and rusty tin roofs.

I slowed down, my heart pounding, trying to hide behind some bicycles parked on the sidewalk

Araceli didn’t turn around; she kept walking. She went into an even narrower alley, where the sunlight barely reached. I hid behind a mechanic’s shop where a man was deep in thought, tightening nuts. I saw Araceli stop in front of an old wooden door, knock softly, and then walk inside and disappear.

I stood there, breathing heavily and my head spinning. What was my daughter-in-law doing there? This wasn’t the market, nor the house of any of the friends she’d mentioned. I wanted to walk over there, knock on the door, ask her directly, but my feet felt rooted to the ground. I was

afraid of the truth. Afraid that what I was about to discover would shatter everything.
In the end, I turned around and walked back home, filled with questions. Each step heavier than the last. As soon as I pushed open the front gate, I froze. Araceli was standing in the kitchen, chopping vegetables, wearing a white blouse completely different from the floral dress she had

left in.
She frowned and looked at me with cold, sharp eyes. Where did Mom go when she’s only just returned? I frown, my mouth dry, unable to say a word. Just a few minutes earlier, I had seen her enter that alley wearing a yellow dress. How could she have come back so quickly? And this blouse? Did I stutter? I went.

I went for a walk. Nothing more. Araceli nodded without saying anything else, but her gaze gave me chills. I went up to my 4th floor, pretending to go get something, but in reality, it was to escape that stare, to calm my heart, which was beating wildly in my chest. That night, I was sitting knitting when Mateo

came running into my 4th floor, his cheeks red from playing in the yard. He hugged my legs, sobbing. Grandma. “Oh! My mom scolded me just because I dropped a pencil. Not like yesterday. Yesterday she was really nice. She even hugged me. I took Mateo in my arms and stroked his head, but inside I felt like I was burning. Your

mom was tired. “Son, don’t be sad,” I said, but my voice was shaking.

Mateo hid his face in my shoulder and whispered, “Grandma, I want the mom I had yesterday.” I hugged him tighter, tears about to fall. “Sure.” My grandson’s words were like a knife, carving deeper into the suspicions I was trying to suppress. That night I couldn’t sleep. I lay in bed with my eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling. The images repeated themselves over and over in my head.

Araceli, in the floral dress, entering the alley. Araceli, in the white blouse, standing in the kitchen, Iván’s voice in my head. I took my notebook out of the drawer and wrote a sentence that even I didn’t dare believe. Maybe they’re not the same person. That sentence felt like a curse and made me tremble.

The next morning, I decided to return to that alley. I couldn’t bear the doubt any longer. I took the family photo that hangs in the living room, where Araceli is smiling radiantly next to Esteban and Mateo. I held it tight and left the house, determined but scared to death. The alley was the same as yesterday, silent and gloomy.

I stopped next to a corn stand where a middle-aged woman was fanning the coals. I showed her the photo and asked, “Excuse me. Have you seen this girl around here?” The woman looked at her closely and then pointed. Oh, yes, of course. He goes in and out of the house at number 14 often. That one over there.

I thanked her.

My heart pounding in my throat, I walked straight toward that house. House number 14 appeared before me, with stained walls, a peeling wooden door, and a pot with a wilted daisy on the windowsill. I stood there with trembling hands, feeling like the whole world was holding its breath with me.

I knocked on the door, and each knock sounded like a hammer blow to my chest. The door opened, and I was speechless. Standing in front of me was a woman identical to Araceli. From her face and body to her long, black hair. The only difference was her frightened look and her hands, which trembled as they held a rag.

I stammered, my voice breaking. Araceli. The girl was startled. She gripped the rag tightly and tried to slam the door shut. But just at that moment, another voice came from inside. A soft but firm voice. Isidora, don’t hide anymore. You too know this is wrong. I looked up and saw a young woman emerge from a corner of the fourth floor, standing right behind the woman who looked just like Araceli.

She was thin, with her hair tied back, and had an intelligent but kind expression. She looked at me and smiled slightly. Let me introduce myself. I’m Luciana Varela, Isidora’s fourth-grade classmate, Doña Estela. Please come in. It’s time you knew the truth. I took a deep breath, trying not to let my legs shake, and entered that cramped tin house.

The walls were stained, the cement floor cracked, and a faint smell of disinfectant floated in the air. In one corner, an older man was coughing weakly, lying on an old cot, covered with a threadbare blanket. I felt the space crushing me, but I walked anyway and sat down on the wooden chair Luciana pointed out to me.

The woman, identical to Araceli, lowered her face, her voice barely a whisper. Forgive me, I’m not Araceli. My name is Isidora. I looked at her, my mind in turmoil, unable to say anything. Isidora. The name was strange, but the face was all too familiar. I clenched my hands, trying to keep my voice steady. Explain to me why you look so much like my daughter-in-law and why you’re showing up at my house.

Isidora looked up, her eyes filled with guilt, but didn’t answer immediately. Instead, Luciana sat down next to her. She poured a glass of water from an old plastic jug and began to speak. “Isidora is very poor, Doña Estela,” Luciana said in a calm, clear voice. “Her adoptive parents are very sick, especially the man lying there.”

A few years ago, Isidora ran into Araceli by chance at a market. They were like two peas in a pod, and Araceli took advantage of that. She suggested Isidora pose as her, replace her for a few hours whenever she needed it. Isidora didn’t want to, but Araceli paid her very well, and her family needed the money for the medicine.

I looked at Isidora and saw that she had her head down, clutching the rag so tightly that her knuckles turned white. I pressed her, my voice full of disbelief. Replace her for what? Why would Araceli need someone to pretend to be her? Isidora looked up, her voice trembling.

I don’t know, everything, ma’am. She just told me, “Just stay at the house for a few hours. Do some things like go to the market, take care of the child,” and she’d already given me money, a lot of money, enough to buy my parents’ medicine. Me. I didn’t dare ask any more. She lowered her head and tears began to roll down her cheeks.

I looked at her, feeling my chest tighten. Every strange detail of the past few months suddenly made sense. The change in handwriting, sometimes sweet and sometimes sour. The voice, sometimes honeyed and sometimes cold. Everything fit together now, like the last pieces of a puzzle I had refused to see. Luciana continued, her gaze sharpening.

I don’t know if this helps, but I once saw Araceli with a very elegant man. His name is Salvador Quiñones. I heard the name when they were talking in a café. They called each other “My love” very affectionately. At that moment, Isidora was waiting outside in the car, not understanding a thing. The name Salvador Quiñones

was like a knife in my heart. I remembered Iván’s words.She was sitting in first class next to a rich man. The small room seemed to spin around me. I tried to stay calm, but my hands were shaking so much that I knocked over the glass of water. Luciana rushed to clean it up, but I just shook my head, my voice choked. “She… Araceli… is deceiving my family.” Isidora burst into tears, her voice breaking.
Forgive me, ma’am. I didn’t mean to hurt anyone. I just wanted to save my parents. I looked at this young woman with a face identical to Araceli’s, but with a look of pain and regret. I wanted to get angry. I wanted to scream. But when I saw Isidora, I only felt pity. She wasn’t the mastermind.

She was just a piece in Araceli’s game.

Everything was falling apart before my eyes. I stood up, trying to make my voice sound firm. “Isidora. Do you know where Araceli is? Do you know what she does when she asks you to pretend to be her?” Isidora shook her head, still crying. I don’t know, ma’am. She just told me to do what she asked and that she’d pay me. I didn’t dare ask any more questions.

Luciana placed a comforting hand on her shoulder and then turned to me. “Doña Estela, I know this is very painful for you. But Isidora is a victim too. She had no choice.” I looked around the humble house, listening to the weak voice of the man on the cot. I understood Isidora’s desperation, but that didn’t erase the feeling of betrayal I felt.

I clenched my fists, trying to hold back my tears. I don’t blame you, Isidora, but I need to know the truth. I need to protect my son and my grandson. I got up feeling like the world was falling down on me. Thank you, Luciana, for telling me the truth. I’ll be back.” I left the house, and the bright sun outside blinded me.

But my heart was frozen. The next morning, I returned to that small alley where the stained walls and the peeling wooden door had become an obsession in my mind. The sun was still beating down, but I felt cold inside, as if carrying an icy wind of unresolved doubts.

I knocked on the door of number 14, clutching the family photo as if it were an amulet that would give me the courage to face the truth. This time Isidora didn’t seem so scared anymore. She opened the door, still timid but calmer, and invited me in. Doña Estela was waiting for her.

Please come in. The house was still small, with that smell of disinfectant and the faint cough of the man on the cot.

I sat down on the old wooden chair and looked at Isidora. She was wearing a simple blouse, her hair tied loosely. She looked tired but no longer scared. I took a deep breath and said in a low voice, “Isidora, I want to meet your adoptive mother. I need to understand all of this better.” Isidora nodded and led me to a corner on the 4th
floor where a very thin woman with completely white hair was lying in bed, her eyes clouded, staring at the ceiling. It was Doña Felicitas Morales, Isidora’s adoptive mother. I took her skinny hand and introduced myself. I am Estela Márquez, the mother of Esteban, Araceli’s husband. Doña Felicitas

looked at me, breathing heavily, and said in a weak voice, “Isidora is not my blood daughter. She is a girl I adopted when she was a newborn.”

Her words were like a hammer blow to my head. I froze, my heart pounding, but I tried to keep my voice calm. “Please tell me how it all happened.” The woman coughed and then slowly began to tell me a story I wasn’t prepared for. Many years ago, I was a nurse in a village hospital. She began with a trembling voice.

A very poor family. She had twin girls. They were so poor they couldn’t support both of them. The mother was crying. She said she could only keep one and the other. They were going to abandon her. My heart broke. I couldn’t let them abandon that baby. So I adopted her. That’s Isidora. He paused to cough long and then looked at Isidora with immense love.

I raised her as my own, but I know she’s always wanted to find her real parents. I have nothing to give her but my love. And this house? I sat there, clutching the edge of my chair, my head spinning. Do you know who Isidora’s biological parents are?

I asked, my voice shaking. Doña Felicitas shook her head.

I only know that they were a poor family from a nearby village. I didn’t ask too many questions. I just wanted to save the girl. I looked at Isidora and saw her with her face bowed, tears streaming down her face. “Doña Estela, I don’t know anything about my biological parents,” she said, her voice choked. “But when I met Araceli, I thought that maybe

she knew something. She looks so much like me, but she never told me anything about it.”
I felt like I was short of breath. I asked Doña Felicitas to let me see her old papers in the hopes of finding some clue. She pointed to an old wooden wardrobe. Isidora took out a yellowed envelope and gave it to me. Inside was a copy of some hospital papers with Isidora’s date of birth.

I read them quickly and felt my heart stop. Isidora’s date of birth was exactly the same as Araceli’s. The same one I had seen on her papers when she married Esteban. I grabbed the documents with trembling hands and looked at Isidora. “You, you and Araceli could be twin sisters.” I said, my voice lost. Isidora burst into tears, covering her face. “So Araceli is my sister. Why didn’t she tell me anything? Why did she make me do all that?” I looked at her, my heart breaking. I remembered the days when Araceli came to my house radiant and confident, as if she had been born to be the perfect wife and mother. I had loved her.

I had believed she would bring Esteban happiness, but now I knew that not only had she deceived my family, but she had also taken advantage of her own sister, using her as her double to hide secrets I didn’t dare imagine. I stood up, placed my hand on Isidora’s shoulder, and my voice, though firm, couldn’t hide the pain. Isidora, from today on, I won’t let anyone else take advantage of you.

I’m going to help your parents with their illness, but in return, you have to cooperate with me. I need to bring this truth to light. For Esteban, for Mateo. Isidora nodded, still crying. I’m going to help her. I don’t want to live this lie anymore. I looked at her and saw sincerity in her eyes, and for the first time, I felt a ray of hope in the midst of the storm. I left the house and walked down the alley, my soul in turmoil.

I passed by the bustling market where people were shopping and laughing. But in my mind, Doña Felicitas’s words echoed like bells. Two twins, one abandoned, the other a servant. And now their destinies had crossed in my own family. I returned home with my soul in shambles. Like a field after a storm.

The truth about Araceli and Isidora. The twins’ secret was a rock crushing my chest. I was facing a crossroads I wasn’t prepared for. To confront my daughter-in-law, the woman who had deceived us all, and reveal the truth to Esteban and Mateo. That night I called Iván. My voice was firm, even though my heart was trembling. Iván, tomorrow night you have to come to the house.

There are some things I need you to clarify. Iván was surprised. I could hear the concern in his voice. “Mom, did something serious happen?” I said sharply. “Just come here, son. I need you. And if you can, bring Araceli’s electronic passport.” He didn’t ask any more questions. He just said, “Yes, Mom, I’ll be there.” I hung up and sat down.

Feeling like the whole world was crashing down on me. I knew tomorrow night would be one no one in this family would forget. The next day, I got up early and prepared a big family dinner. I put a white tablecloth on the table and lit some candles. I cooked the mole poblano that Esteban loves so much and the grilled fish that Mateo always asks for.

I wanted this dinner to be special, not to celebrate, but to mark a before and after. I was in the kitchen chopping vegetables, but my mind was elsewhere. Between that gloomy alley and Isidora’s words, I told myself I had to be strong for Esteban. For Mateo. But every cut from the knife felt like a cut to my own heart.

Esteban came home as it was getting dark, tired from work. When he saw the table set, he was surprised. “So what’s the celebration now? That you made so much food? Mom?” I smiled, trying to look calm. I just wanted us all to have dinner. Delicious. Sit down, son.” Araceli came in wearing her light blue dress, smiling softly but with a hint of nervousness in her eyes.

Mateo ran to hug my legs. “Grandma, the fish smells so good!” I stroked his head with a lump in my throat. I knew that after tonight, Mateo’s innocent smile might never be so carefree again. We sat at the table, and at first, the atmosphere was lively. Esteban

talked about work. Mateo talked excitedly about the drawing he did at school.
Araceli nodded, commenting occasionally, but I noticed her hand trembling slightly as she held the spoon. I took a deep breath and signaled to Iván, who was waiting outside. He came in, and right behind him was Isidora, wearing a simple dress, her face identical to Araceli’s, but with a look of anguish.

Everyone at the table fell silent. Mateo looked confused from Araceli to Isidora and asked innocently, “Why are there two moms?” Esteban turned pale, dropped his spoon, and Araceli jumped up, screaming. “What’s all this about, Mom?” I stood up, holding onto the edge of the table to keep from shaking. “Sit down, Araceli,” I said slowly but firmly. “I need us to get everything straight.”

I began to count, and every word tore me apart. Ivan’s call from the airport when he saw her on a flight to France. Even though she was still at home, the times I changed hands to write her character. Sometimes sweet, sometimes sour. And finally, my visit to the alley where I met Isidora and discovered the twins’ secret.

“Are you and Isidora twin sisters?” I said, looking her straight in the eyes. “Did you take advantage of your sister to hide the truth? Tell us what the truth is.” Araceli was trembling, her face as white as a sheet. She screamed, trying to defend herself. “She’s making it all up to humiliate me. How dare she?” But Ivan

approached and slammed a stack of papers onto the table.
“This is a copy of the electronic passport with the entry and exit stamp for France,” he said harshly. “You can’t be home and fly to France at the same time.” Araceli stared at the papers, her lips pursed, unable to say anything. Mateo, sitting next to her, suddenly intervened in a voice

innocent but full of pain.
It’s true, Grandma. Some days my mom is an angel, and other days she’s very mean. I don’t like mean moms. My grandson’s words were like a stab, and I had to hold back tears. The air in the room felt so heavy it was hard to breathe. I nodded and signaled to Luciana, who had just come in through the back door.

She stood there with her sharp gaze and spoke in front of everyone. I saw Araceli with Salvador Quiñones. They called each other “My love.” And it was she who hired Isidora to pretend to be her and deceive the family. Esteban turned to his wife, his voice choked. “It’s true, Araceli. Tell me. Is it true?”

Araceli bit her lip in silence for a long moment and suddenly shouted, her voice full of fury. “Yes, it’s true. I have a lover.” I’m sick of this poor life. Sick of being the daughter-in-law in this house. Salvador gives me a life 100 times better. And you, Esteban, are useless. Her words were like a bomb exploding in the room. Esteban froze, clenching his fists so tightly they turned white. Mateo burst into tears and ran to hug me, his voice shaking.

“Grandma, what did my mom say?” I hugged him tightly, tears streaming down my cheeks. I looked at Araceli, heartbroken. She stood there, her gaze cold, without a hint of regret. Esteban stood up, his voice trembling. “Araceli D. Do you really think that?” She turned away without answering.

Isidora, who had been silent to one side, suddenly spoke in a low but clear voice. “Sister, you didn’t have to hurt them like this. I only wanted to help you, but I didn’t know it would come to this.” Araceli glared at her, but said nothing. She just turned and left. The door slammed close, leaving the room plunged into a painful silence. After that night of confrontation, the air in my house felt as if its life had been stolen from it.

The living room, once filled with Mateo’s laughter and Esteban’s chatter, was now stiflingly silent. I had lived my whole life for my family, but now I felt like someone who had just survived a hurricane, standing amid the rubble of the home I had taken care of so much.

Araceli left after shouting those bitter words, leaving Esteban with a blank stare and Mateo with innocent tears. I knew everything had changed forever. A week later, Esteban and Araceli went to court for their divorce. I didn’t go, but Esteban told me afterward, his voice dry, as if he had lost his soul. Mom didn’t look at me or Mateo.

She signed the papers and left with that man, as if we had never existed. I sat down next to her. I held her hand, trying not to cry. Araceli didn’t ask for custody of Mateo, as if the boy had merely been part of a play she’d grown tired of. My heart ached, not just for Esteban, but for Mateo. A seven-year-old boy who didn’t deserve to be abandoned like this. “Don’t worry, my son,” I said, my voice shaking.

I’ll always be here, and Mateo will never lack love. But deep down, I knew this wound would take a long time to heal. Esteban broke down, became quiet, and spoke little. He only buried himself in his work or sat and watched Mateo play in the yard.

I looked at my son and saw in his eyes the same sadness Don Rafael had in his final days, when he learned he could no longer stay with us. I wanted to hug him, tell him everything would be okay, but I didn’t know where to begin. Luckily, Isidora appeared silently, like a small light in the darkness. She came to the house every day.

She brought containers of hot food. She sat with Mateo to play and wiped his tears when he asked, “Tía, where did my mom go?” Really? I looked at Isidora, seeing that face identical to Araceli’s, but with a completely different heart. She was sweet, patient, and always found a way to make Mateo laugh.

One afternoon, I saw Mateo run to hug Isidora with his cheerful little voice, “Mom, Isidora, teach me how to draw a bird.” I was surprised, my heart sinking. The little boy called her “Mom” with a carefree smile I hadn’t seen on him in a long time. Isidora laughed and stroked his head.

Of course you can, my love. But you have to draw it beautifully for me to see it. I stood there, tears streaming down my face.

Mateo’s innocent words were like medicine that eased my pain. I knew that Isidora had not only replaced Araceli in those days of deception, but was becoming part of our family with her own sincere heart. One night, while I was cleaning the kitchen, Esteban called me into the living room.

He stood there, holding a small ring with trembling hands. His expression was a mixture of nerves and determination. Isidora was at his side, her face flushed and her eyes shining. Esteban knelt, his voice breaking. “Isidora, I don’t want to waste any more time. You brought light to me and Mateo.

Will you be my wife and Mateo’s mother?” Isidora burst into tears, looking at me as if seeking my approval. I approached, took her hand, and nodded gently. “You deserve it, mija. You’ve been part of this family for so long.” She hugged me.

Her tears wet my shoulder, and I knew that was the moment my family was beginning to heal. Esteban and Isidora’s wedding. It was soon after, a small but loving event. I stood in the yard watching the red roses tied to the fence, listening to Mateo’s laughter as he wore his little suit, being his dad’s little godfather. Iván flew back from a work trip and stood next to his brother with a smile as radiant as the day he first put on his pilot’s uniform.
I sat in the front row with tears rolling down my cheeks. They weren’t tears of loss, but of happiness. I looked at Isidora in her simple wedding dress, holding Esteban’s hand, and I knew my family had found a true heart. After losing a fraud, life after that began to calm down.

Isidora maintained her simple life, caring for Esteban and Mateo with all her love. She cooked warm meals and sang Mateo to sleep with the same beautiful little sky I sang to my children. Every night, she sat next to Esteban, listening to him talk about his plans and projects.

With a look of pride, Mateo no longer asked about his other mother. He just snuggled up to Isidora, calling her Mom. With a radiant smile, I looked at my family and saw how the wounds were slowly healing. Late one night, I sat on the porch. The wind blew gently in the garden. Mateo’s laughter could be heard from inside, mingling with Isidora’s sweet voice.

I looked out and saw Esteban deep in his work while Isidora made him a cup of tea, set it aside, and placed a soft kiss on his forehead. I smiled, feeling my heart finally at rest. I thought about the long road I’d traveled from my first doubts, from Iván’s call, to that dark alley where I discovered the truth.

The truth had been cruel, but as Don Rafael used to say, the truth will set you free. Estela. And so it was. The truth set us free. It brought us Isidora and gave us a new, much brighter and happier beginning. The story you just heard has been changed in names and locations to protect the identities of the people involved.

We’re not telling this to judge, but in the hope that someone will listen and stop to reflect. How many mothers are suffering in silence within their own homes? I truly wonder if you were in my place. What would you do? Would you choose to remain silent to keep the peace? Or would you dare to

face it all to find your voice? I want to know your opinion, because every story is like a candle that can light someone else’s path. God always blesses. And I’m convinced that courage leads us to better days.