“Margarita, woman, for God’s sake,” he said, putting his hands to his head. “What madness is this? You’re going to kill yourself carrying those stones. Don Guillermo, may he rest in peace, wouldn’t want to see you like that, turned into a construction worker.”
I stopped for a moment. Sweat trickled down my forehead and mingled with the dust of the stone. I felt my heart pounding in my ribs, not only from the physical exertion, but from the anger and sadness that had been lurking in my throat since the day of the funeral.
“Doña Dorotea,” I replied hoarsely, “I know very well what I’m doing. My husband left clear instructions about this.”
She snorted, incredulous.
“Instructions? Marga, darling, are you listening to yourself? Guillermo is gone. Those ideas… those obsessions with building walls aren’t going to bring him back. You have to accept reality.”
I clenched my fists until my knuckles turned white. It wasn’t the first time my sanity had been questioned. Half of San Isidro was already betting that the pain had driven me mad. But nobody knew the cards.