“Opal, the house isn’t really safe for visitors yet.”
“I’ve walked through worse,” she replied.
Then she hung up.
I had no idea why she wanted to see an abandoned farmhouse.
Or why she insisted on keeping the visit secret from her own son.
But that Sunday, I picked her up.
And when she walked through the farmhouse door, I noticed something extraordinary.
She didn’t look around like a visitor.
She moved confidently through the front room, turned into the kitchen, and stopped beside the pantry.
Then she placed her hand against the wooden doorframe.
And began to cry.
“Opal?” I whispered. “What’s wrong?”
She slowly touched several faint marks in the wood.
Then turned toward me.
“Emily, did nobody ever tell you whose house this was?”
I stared at Opal.
“Los Miller lo poseían”, le respondí.
She nodded.
“They did. But before them, it belonged to my father.”
