Graciously accepting her gift, I welcomed her into my home and offered to share the little bit of tea we had. Feliciana’s eyes followed me as we moved through the house, taking in the threadbare sofa, the wobbly armchair, and the sparse walls. She cooed over Menotti, sleeping on a blanket in the parlor. “They are just cherubs, aren’t they?” Following me into the kitchen, she asked, “What brings you to Montevideo?”

“My husband and I are looking to make a fresh start.”

“Oh, that’s lovely.” Feliciana took the liberty of breaking off some of the sweet bread for herself. “Fresh starts are always a fun adventure. Where did you come from?”

“Brazil.”

Feliciana choked on her bread. “That’s quite a way with such a young child.” She looked back to where Menotti slept. “Where in Brazil?”

I paused. “All over, really. But enough about me, I want to hear about you.”

At my suggestion, Feliciana delved into her history with abandon. They were natives of Montevideo, she and her husband, Marco. He was a mountain of a man whose shyness made him gentle. They had no children of their own but fostered a boy who worked as an apprentice and slept at their shop. Soon she was telling me which markets were best, when the right time to visit the washing well was, and where to sit at church, “in order to get the perfect view of the altar, of course.”

“Of course,” I agreed, knowing that I had no plans to step inside the church.

Her kind eyes didn’t judge as I told her who my husband really was and about what I had done in Rio Grande do Sul.

“You mean to tell me you fought alongside your husband?” she asked.

“Yes, I wasn’t going to let him leave me behind.”

“How remarkable,” she said in an awed whisper. “How did you meet? What made you want to leave your home? Tell me everything.”

I sat across the table from her and began my story as she leaned forward, anxiously waiting to hear everything that I had to tell her.

After that first morning, Dona Feliciana showed up daily with pastries, wanting to hear stories of my adventures. I made us tea as she doted on Menotti, trying fervently to get him to call her abuela. I grew to look forward to my mornings with her.

One day, after Dona Feliciana sat down, the steaming gourd of tea looking large in her hands, she asked the one question I wasn’t prepared to answer.

“Tell me about your wedding. I haven’t heard that story yet.”

I slowly turned to her. “Well, that’s because there isn’t much to tell.”

“There has to be something. Was it a beautiful ceremony under the stars? Were you able to get a priest or did one of the generals marry you?”