part2 of 2
Uпa пoche mυrmυró coп fiebre:
“Don’t go… look… smile…”
Tomé sυ maпo.
“I’m here.”
She opened her eyes. For the first time, she looked at me without fear.
“You must hate me,” he whispered.
—Maybe so—I said— . Already.
Then came the next surprise: the cause of my sleepwalking episodes. A doctor explained that it was related to a childhood trauma, repressed until stress brought it to light.
—Her husband recognized him —said the doctor—. He knew it before you did.
That night, for the first time, there was no fear, only regret.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I asked.
He looked out the window.
“Because if I did,” he said, “you would have run away.”
“And now?”
He exhaled.
“Now it’s too late to run.”
His health worsened again. A night said in a low voice:
“If I leave—”
“Don’t do it,” I interrupted.
He attended.
Leave the house. Take your father with you. Start over.
“And you?”
He did not respond.
That night, when he finally fell asleep, I sat in the chair, the same chair he once used to watch me. The papers were turned upside down. I watched him breathe.
And then I saw him.
He was smiling.
I understood: the danger was no longer me. He had been protecting us both from the beginning.
The next morning he told me:
“I’ve already decided.”
“¿Qυé?”
“I will no longer live in fear.”
He underwent a risky and brutal surgery, with hours of waiting.
When the doctor left, she was smiling.
“He survived.”
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