En route to Vinces, I noticed two things: The first was the cacophony of birds flying above our heads, as though we’d intruded upon a land ruled by animals and they disapproved of our presence. The second thing was how wobbly the canoe taking us up the Río Guayas was.

Neither my father’s lawyer nor the young man rowing made any attempt to help me onto the boat. For years, I’d taken men’s gallantry for granted. I’d never realized how much I’d relied on them, how Cristóbal always rushed to open any door I happened to be standing by, how he unscrewed a bottle of wine, opened a jar of preserves, or carried logs for our chimney.

Just thinking about Cristóbal brought an enormous lump to my throat. How could I ever move forward when everything reminded me of him?

I lowered my head to hide my tears.

I missed his company, his eagerness to please me, his sympathetic ear (when he was listening). Strange how self-sufficient men were. It was both an advantage and a disadvantage. In my case, a clear disadvantage as both of these men had looked at me as though I was less of a person when I struggled to keep my balance aboard and carry my luggage into the canoe at the same time.

Aquilino rested the side of his hand on his forehead and looked at the flock of seagulls passing by. He was sitting across from me, his legs crossed awkwardly and his long, skinny arm busily swatting mosquitoes every few minutes.

The young man taking us to Vinces couldn’t have been older than seventeen. He said his name was Paco as he pushed my trunk to the back of the canoe. I supposed I should have been grateful for his help even though I sensed it had more to do with his own comfort than mine. He wore a white shirt soaked with sweat. I wondered why he even bothered wearing it as the fabric had become nearly transparent. As he rowed vigorously, two wet circles—as round and as dark as two pans—grew under his armpits. The skin on his face was hepatitis pale and his short, curly hair covered his head like moss.

“We’ll go up the river,” Aquilino said, pointing north. “That’s where all the cacao plantations are. We call our cacao Arriba because of its location in relation to this river.”

My father had mentioned this fact to my mother in the letters he’d sent when he first arrived. But that was when she still read his letters. After a few years, she stopped opening them and simply buried them inside a wicker basket until they turned yellow. I only read them after she passed away, though I’d been dying to open them all along.

“Our cacao is one of the best in the world,” the lawyer said matter-of-factly.