She, on the other hand, happily filled me in about her son, who was two years and eight months old by then, about her relationship of several months with a marine biologist, and her job as an account executive at the Bank of Chile. Her enthusiasm sounded excessive and a little forced. I got the feeling that she wanted to flaunt her achievements to me, though not to make me feel bad. I think that, ultimately, what she needed was approval, a kind of final blessing of her way of life—my blessing. Which is not to say that underneath it she wasn’t hiding some resentment.

In our old friendship, I was the one who seemed sure of myself. I’d been nineteen, studying literature, and I was always talking about the subjects I was passionate about and believed to be transcendental: philosophy, politics, cinema, poetry. Dorothy listened to me, insecure and anodyne. She was a few years older than me and worked full-time at the restaurant to help out her family and stay busy at something. She lived with her mom, two aunts, and their daughters in her grandparents’ house. Her father was in Miami—he was the one who had chosen that gringa name of hers—and his last communication had been when she was in high school (he’d sent her some Incubus CDs).

Waiting tables was good money, but at that time I didn’t consider it an occupation to brag about. I said so to Dorothy at the time, and I was always urging her—pressuring her—to study or take an interest in something. I guess I had a very elevated idea of myself, though that was to a large extent a defense mechanism. I lived alone and supported myself, and the thought that I was more than a mere waitress, that I was destined for grander things, gave me the fortitude I needed to bear an exhausting routine and, above all, not go back on my own decisions. It was the life I had chosen when I’d left my parents’ home so early.

“I always remember you,” said Dorothy, in a tone that seemed too neutral.

I was alarmed at not being able to tell whether the memories she had were good or bad.