Things were far from over, though. The next few days proved challenging. I remained locked in my neighbor’s house, the odd guest wearing his employee’s dresses and occasionally my husband’s trousers. Don Fernando was not as annoying as I’d originally thought. He’d traveled widely and offered interesting conversations about the places he’d visited in Latin America and Europe. He was fond of bullfighting, one of the most popular activities in my hometown, and enjoyed a good meal and drinks after dinner. The more enthusiastic the story, the more he snorted.

In the beginning, he couldn’t make sense of me and whether he should treat me as a man or a woman. It was apparent that neither one of us could forget that he’d punched me once, though we never mentioned it. Yet, the memory was always there, in the middle of our conversations and our silences, though it seemed like it had happened in another lifetime.

Thanks to Don Fernando’s assistance, I paid a visit to Aquilino in Guayaquil and brought all the paperwork to prove my true identity. He promised he would start moving things along, but he was sorry to say that an unexpected event had taken place: my three siblings had united in contesting the will, claiming that my father had not been in his right mind when he wrote the inheritance.

The news felt like a bucket of iced water thrown in my face.

Aquilino added that the day I’d left the hacienda, the authorities had taken Elisa to Guayaquil. She was now in custody until a trial date was set.

I was conflicted by the news. On one hand, I was glad that justice for my husband would finally be served, but I couldn’t help but think of the little girl who wrote those letters to my father—how much she’d wanted to be loved by him, how much she’d wanted to better herself by attending school and learning. A spirit like that didn’t deserve to be imprisoned by the past. It was ironic that, like me, she’d tried to connect with my father through incessant letters.

By now, Soledad must have learned the truth about her son, too. I felt sorry for her, but Franco had made his own decisions and unfortunately she would have to live with the consequences.

I’d thought that knowing the truth—finding Cristóbal’s killer—would give me peace of mind, but I was more heartbroken than ever.