I’d only traveled in an automobile a couple of times. In my native Sevilla, I walked everywhere. But when I visited Madrid to see about the expired patent to my grandmother’s invention—her fabulous cacao bean roaster—I rode an automobile similar to this one, except that these seats seemed softer. Or perhaps it was my exhaustion.

Pushing on a lever by the steering wheel, Aquilino informed me that, unless I’d made other arrangements, I would spend the night at his house. We would depart to Vinces first thing in the morning to “see about Don Armand’s will.” He was unable to look me in the eye as he said this.

I recalled the words from the letter—I’d read it so many times I’d already memorized it: As one of the beneficiaries, you are required to come to Ecuador and take possession of your portion of your father’s estate or to appoint a representative who may sell or donate the property on your behalf.

One of the beneficiaries.

I’d been giving this some thought. I’d never heard of my father having other children, but one could never be too sure with men. It wouldn’t surprise me if he’d started a new family here. After all, he’d left my mother twenty-five years ago to pursue his dream of owning a cacao plantation in Ecuador. It was inevitable that he should have found someone else to share his bed. The incident aboard the ship left no doubt that someone wasn’t pleased with my coming. The question was who.

During the drive, Aquilino inquired about María Purificación’s passing, shaking his head and clucking his tongue in apparent disappointment. It was surreal to talk about my own death, to hear my name repeated as though I weren’t present. I wanted to scream at the injustice of it all. I wanted to demand an explanation on Cristóbal’s behalf, but instead, I played along. I needed to make him believe I was my husband.

I looked out the window. Guayaquil was far from the village I’d envisioned and more modern than many towns in Andalucía. We drove past the river—the Guayas, he said—toward a quaint neighborhood along a hill stacked with colonial houses bursting with flowerpots in balconies and entryways. Aquilino said it was called Las Peñas and the hill, Santa Ana. The serpentine, cobbled streets reminded me of the small towns near Sevilla. The realization that I might never return to my country hit me for the first time since I’d left. Even more heartbreaking was to think that Cristóbal would never explore this new place with me. I stared at my hand, empty without the warmth of his.

Incomplete.