I stared at the name until the letters began to blur.
\n\u2800
\nSim\u00f3n Aranda.
\n\u2800
\nI’d never heard of him.
\n\u2800
\nBut whoever had left that envelope knew where I lived. And more importantly, they knew I was asking questions.
\n\u2800
\nI called Alba.
\n\u2800
\n\u201cSomeone left a photograph at my door.\u201d
\n\u2800
\n\u201cOf what?\u201d
\n\u2800
\n\u201cThe van from Baltasar’s accident. There’s a name written on the back.\u201d
\n\u2800
\n\u201cDon’t go looking for him alone, Irene.\u201d
\n\u2800
\n\u201cI wasn’t planning to.\u201d
\n\u2800
\nThat was a lie.
\n\u2800
\nBy eleven the following morning, I was standing outside a small auto repair shop on the outskirts of Segovia.
\n\u2800
\nA faded sign above the entrance read:
\n\u2800
\nARANDA MOTOR REPAIRS
\n\u2800
\nA man in his late fifties emerged from beneath a raised vehicle, wiping his hands on a greasy cloth.
\n\u2800
\n\u201cCan I help you?\u201d
\n\u2800
\n\u201cAre you Sim\u00f3n Aranda?\u201d
\n\u2800
\nHe stopped wiping his hands.
\n\u2800
\n\u201cWho’s asking?\u201d
\n\u2800
\n\u201cMy name is Irene Varela. I was Baltasar Araujo’s partner.\u201d
\n\u2800
\nThe cloth slipped from his fingers.
\n\u2800
\nFor several seconds, he said nothing.
\n\u2800
\nThen he glanced toward the street.
\n\u2800
\n\u201cYou’d better come inside.\u201d
\n\u2800
\nHis office smelled of coffee and motor oil. A calendar from two years earlier hung crookedly beside a filing cabinet.
\n\u2800
\nSim\u00f3n closed the door.
\n\u2800
\n\u201cI wondered how long it would take someone to find me.\u201d
\n\u2800
\nMy pulse quickened.
\n\u2800
\n\u201cDo you know who died in that van?\u201d
\n\u2800
\nHe lowered his eyes.
\n\u2800
\n\u201cYes.\u201d
\n\u2800
\nI gripped the arms of my chair.
\n\u2800
\n\u201cThen tell me.\u201d
\n\u2800
\nSim\u00f3n sat opposite me.
\n\u2800
\n\u201cThe man’s name was Juli\u00e1n Ferrer.\u201d
\n\u2800
\nI felt the blood drain from my face.
\n\u2800
\n\u201cWho was he?\u201d
\n\u2800
\n\u201cA mechanic. He worked for me occasionally. He also did jobs for the Araujo family.\u201d
\n\u2800
\nI struggled to breathe.
\n\u2800
\n\u201cWhy was he driving Baltasar’s van?\u201d
\n\u2800
\nSim\u00f3n looked toward the window.
\n\u2800
\n\u201cThat’s the question I’ve been asking myself for three months.\u201d
\n\u2800
\nHe explained that Juli\u00e1n had borrowed the van on the evening of the accident.
\n\u2800
\nThe vehicle had caught fire after leaving a rural road.
\n\u2800
\nBecause of the damage, the authorities had initially relied on the vehicle’s ownership and information supplied by the family while establishing the victim’s identity.
\n\u2800
\n\u201cDid you tell the police?\u201d I asked.
\n\u2800
\n\u201cI told them Juli\u00e1n might have been driving. I gave a statement. But nobody contacted me afterward.\u201d
\n\u2800
\n\u201cWhy didn’t you find me?\u201d
\n\u2800
\nHis expression hardened.
\n\u2800
\n\u201cBecause Beatriz Araujo came here two days after the funeral.\u201d
\n\u2800
\nI went cold.
\n\u2800
\n\u201cShe told me Juli\u00e1n’s family had already been informed and that the identification was being handled properly. She warned me not to spread rumors.\u201d
\n\u2800
\n\u201cDid you believe her?\u201d
\n\u2800
\n\u201cI wanted to.\u201d
\n\u2800
\nHe opened a drawer and removed a photocopy of an old work order.
\n\u2800
\nAt the bottom was Juli\u00e1n’s signature.
\n\u2800
\nBeside it was a note:
\n\u2800
\nVan collected at 6:40 p.m. Authorized by B. Araujo.
\n\u2800
\nI stared at the initials.
\n\u2800
\nBeatriz Araujo.
\n\u2800
\nBaltasar’s mother.
\n\u2800
\n\u201cWhy would she authorize him to take the van?\u201d
\n\u2800
\nSim\u00f3n shook his head.
\n\u2800
\n\u201cI don’t know. But I think your questions deserve an answer.\u201d
\n\u2800
\nI left the workshop with copies of the documents and went directly to a lawyer.
\n\u2800
\nHer name was Marta Salcedo.
\n\u2800
\nShe listened without interrupting as I explained the funeral, the wedding, the death certificate, and Sim\u00f3n’s account.
\n\u2800
\nWhen I finished, she folded her hands.
\n\u2800
\n\u201cIrene, if Baltasar is alive and someone else was buried under his name, this isn’t simply a family deception. It could involve serious criminal offenses.\u201d
\n\u2800
\nI nodded.
\n\u2800
\n\u201cBut we need to establish the facts. We can’t assume everyone who signed a document knew it was false.\u201d
\n\u2800
\nShe helped me prepare a formal complaint requesting an investigation into the identification of the deceased.
\n\u2800
\nI also gave the police the wedding venue, the date, and the name Adri\u00e1n.
\n\u2800
\nFor the first time in ten days, I felt as though I was doing something other than chasing my own memories.
\n\u2800
\nThree days later, my phone rang.
\n\u2800
\nIt was an unfamiliar number.
\n\u2800
\n\u201cIrene?\u201d
\n\u2800
\nI recognized the voice immediately.
\n\u2800
\nBaltasar.
\n\u2800
\nI couldn’t speak.
\n\u2800
\n\u201cI know you’ve been asking questions.\u201d
\n\u2800
\nMy knees weakened.
\n\u2800
\n\u201cWho did we bury?\u201d
\n\u2800
\nSilence.
\n\u2800
\nThen he whispered:
\n\u2800
\n\u201cI’m sorry.\u201d
\n\u2800
\nI closed my eyes.
\n\u2800
\n\u201cDon’t you dare apologize before answering me.\u201d
\n\u2800
\nHe took a shaky breath.
\n\u2800
\n\u201cHis name was Juli\u00e1n.\u201d
\n\u2800
\nI pressed my hand against the wall.
\n\u2800
\n\u201cYou knew?\u201d
\n\u2800
\n\u201cYes.\u201d
\n\u2800
\nThe room seemed to tilt.
\n\u2800
\n\u201cYou let me bury another man?\u201d
\n\u2800
\n\u201cIrene, please\u2014\u201d
\n\u2800
\n\u201cYOU LET ME STAND BESIDE A COFFIN AND BELIEVE YOU WERE INSIDE!\u201d
\n\u2800
\nHe said nothing.
\n\u2800
\nI could hear him breathing.
\n\u2800
\nThen I asked the question that had been haunting me since Las Encinas.
\n\u2800
\n\u201cWho is Celia?\u201d
\n\u2800
\nAnother silence.
\n\u2800
\n\u201cMy wife.\u201d
\n\u2800
\nI laughed.
\n\u2800
\nIt was a terrible sound.
\n\u2800
\n\u201cYour wife?\u201d
\n\u2800
\n\u201cWe got married ten days ago.\u201d
\n\u2800
\n\u201cAnd what was I?\u201d
\n\u2800
\nHis answer came so quietly I almost missed it.
\n\u2800
\n\u201cSomeone I loved.\u201d
\n\u2800
\nI hung up.
\n\u2800
\nFor a long time, I sat on the kitchen floor.
\n\u2800
\nNot crying.
\n\u2800
\nNot screaming.
\n\u2800
\nJust staring at the wall.
\n\u2800
\nBecause there was something worse than discovering the man you loved had betrayed you.
\n\u2800
\nIt was discovering he’d watched you mourn him.
\n\u2800
\nAnd had done nothing.
\n\u2800
\nThe investigation unfolded over the following months.
\n\u2800
\nAuthorities established that the man buried under Baltasar’s name was indeed Juli\u00e1n Ferrer.
\n\u2800
\nFurther inquiries revealed that Baltasar had been preparing to leave Spain when the accident occurred.
\n\u2800
\nHe had financial problems I knew nothing about, including substantial debts connected to his family’s business.
\n\u2800
\nThe fire created an opportunity.
\n\u2800
\nInstead of correcting the mistaken identification, Baltasar allowed the confusion to continue.
\n\u2800
\nHe later obtained documents under another identity through fraudulent means.
\n\u2800
\nHis family had helped conceal his whereabouts.
\n\u2800
\nBut Elisa’s role turned out to be more complicated than I’d feared.
\n\u2800
\nInvestigators confirmed that her electronic signature on the death certificate copy did not establish that she’d participated in identifying the body.
\n\u2800
\nShe eventually admitted that she’d learned Baltasar was alive after the funeral.
\n\u2800
\nShe hadn’t known about the plan beforehand.
\n\u2800
\nAnd she was the one who had secretly sent me the photograph and Sim\u00f3n’s name.
\n\u2800
\nWhen I asked why she hadn’t simply told me the truth, she began crying.
\n\u2800
\n\u201cI was afraid of my mother. Afraid of what my brother would do. And ashamed of what we’d allowed to happen.\u201d
\n\u2800
\nI listened.
\n\u2800
\nBut I didn’t comfort her.
\n\u2800
\nSome apologies deserve to be heard without being accepted.
\n\u2800
\nCelia, the woman Baltasar had married under the name Adri\u00e1n, was devastated when investigators contacted her.
\n\u2800
\nShe’d believed she was marrying a divorced businessman.
\n\u2800
\nShe knew nothing about the funeral.
\n\u2800
\nNothing about Juli\u00e1n.
\n\u2800
\nAnd nothing about me.
\n\u2800
\nI met her once, at her request, in a quiet caf\u00e9.
\n\u2800
\nShe was younger than I’d expected.
\n\u2800
\nHer hands trembled around her coffee cup.
\n\u2800
\n\u201cI thought he was a good man,\u201d she whispered.
\n\u2800
\n\u201cSo did I.\u201d
\n\u2800
\nShe looked at me.
\n\u2800
\n\u201cDo you hate me?\u201d
\n\u2800
\nI shook my head.
\n\u2800
\n\u201cNo. We were both lied to.\u201d
\n\u2800
\nWe sat together for nearly an hour.
\n\u2800
\nTwo women who had loved the same man.
\n\u2800
\nTwo women who had been given different versions of his life.
\n\u2800
\nAnd neither of us had known the truth.
\n\u2800
\nEventually, the authorities brought criminal proceedings connected to the false identity, fraudulent documentation, and the handling of the death records.
\n\u2800
\nThe case took time.
\n\u2800
\nThere were hearings, statements, and days when I wished I’d never opened that envelope.
\n\u2800
\nBut one detail stayed with me.
\n\u2800
\nJuli\u00e1n Ferrer had a daughter.
\n\u2800
\nHer name was Luc\u00eda.
\n\u2800
\nShe was twenty-one.
\n\u2800
\nFor months, she’d believed her father had disappeared without saying goodbye.
\n\u2800
\nWhen investigators finally confirmed his death, she received the truth she’d been denied.
\n\u2800
\nI met her outside the courthouse.
\n\u2800
\nShe was holding a photograph of her father.
\n\u2800
\n\u201cHe always called me on Sundays,\u201d she said. \u201cWhen he stopped, I thought he didn’t want me anymore.\u201d
\n\u2800
\nI felt tears gathering in my eyes.
\n\u2800
\n\u201cI know what it’s like to believe someone you love has vanished.\u201d
\n\u2800
\nShe nodded.
\n\u2800
\n\u201cBut you got to find out he was alive.\u201d
\n\u2800
\nI looked at her.
\n\u2800
\n\u201cYes.\u201d
\n\u2800
\nShe pressed the photograph against her chest.
\n\u2800
\n\u201cAnd I found out mine was dead.\u201d
\n\u2800
\nI had no answer.
\n\u2800
\nBecause she was right.
\n\u2800
\nFor months, I’d thought my grief was the center of this story.
\n\u2800
\nBut someone else had lost a father and been denied even the dignity of knowing where he was buried.
\n\u2800
\nA year after the wedding at Las Encinas, I received a letter from Baltasar.
\n\u2800
\nI recognized his handwriting immediately.
\n\u2800
\nHe said he regretted everything.
\n\u2800
\nHe said he’d panicked.
\n\u2800
\nHe said he’d loved me but hadn’t known how to escape the life he’d created.
\n\u2800
\nAt the bottom, he’d written:
\n\u2800
\nI hope one day you can forgive me.
\n\u2800
\nI folded the letter and placed it in a drawer.
\n\u2800
\nI didn’t answer.
\n\u2800
\nThat spring, Alba and I received a commission to prepare flowers for a small wedding in the countryside.
\n\u2800
\nThe bride wanted white roses and eucalyptus.
\n\u2800
\nNothing extravagant.
\n\u2800
\nAs I arranged the bouquet, Alba asked:
\n\u2800
\n\u201cDo weddings still make you sad?\u201d
\n\u2800
\nI thought about it.
\n\u2800
\n\u201cSometimes.\u201d
\n\u2800
\n\u201cAnd today?\u201d
\n\u2800
\nI looked at the flowers in my hands.
\n\u2800
\n\u201cToday they remind me that people can still mean what they promise.\u201d
\n\u2800
\nAlba smiled.
\n\u2800
\nI tied the final ribbon and stepped back.
\n\u2800
\nFor the first time in more than a year, I felt proud of something beautiful without wondering what it might be hiding.
\n\u2800
\nThree months after burying Baltasar, I’d arranged the flowers for his wedding to another woman.
\n\u2800
\nBut the cruelest part wasn’t that he’d chosen someone else.
\n\u2800
\nIt was that he’d made me grieve a man who was still alive while another family searched for a man who was truly gone.
\n\u2800
\nAnd if I learned anything from that terrible year, it was this:
\n\u2800
\nLove can survive a painful truth.
\n\u2800
\nBut it cannot survive a life built entirely on lies.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
I stared at the name until the letters began to blur. \u2800 Sim\u00f3n Aranda. \u2800 I’d never heard of him. \u2800 But whoever had left that envelope knew where I lived. And more importantly, they knew I was asking questions. \u2800 I called Alba. \u2800 \u201cSomeone left a photograph at my door.\u201d \u2800 \u201cOf what?\u201d […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":8889,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-9371","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-interesting"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/tappyli.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/9371","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/tappyli.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/tappyli.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/tappyli.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/tappyli.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=9371"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/tappyli.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/9371\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":9372,"href":"https:\/\/tappyli.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/9371\/revisions\/9372"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/tappyli.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/media\/8889"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/tappyli.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=9371"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/tappyli.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=9371"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/tappyli.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=9371"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}