Chapter 2 - The Room I Was Given
The first month inside Teresa's house changed me in ways I didn't admit.
I started sleeping through the night.
I ate three meals a day.
I shaved more often.
I found temporary work at a lumberyard in Azcapotzalco.
For the first time in months, I had an address.
But I also had a secret.
I wanted Teresa's house.
At first, I told myself I wanted security.
Then I told myself I wanted stability.
Eventually, I stopped giving the desire a nicer name.
I wanted what she owned.
Teresa knew.
She never confronted me directly.
Instead, she watched.
One morning, she placed an envelope on the kitchen table.
“Your paycheck came?”
“Yes.”
“How much?”
I told her.
She nodded.
“How much did you spend?”
I hesitated.
She smiled.
“That's what I thought.”
“You don't have to worry about me.”
“I worry because you're twenty-eight and already think money can solve every problem.”
“It solves most of them.”
“No.”
She pointed toward the envelope.
“Money reveals problems. It doesn't solve them.”
I didn't understand what she meant.
Not then.
At the lumberyard, I met Don Octavio, a retired carpenter who worked three days a week because he couldn't stay away from wood.
He taught me how to build tables.
My first one was terrible.
One leg was shorter than the others.
I wanted to throw it away.
Teresa stopped me.
“Fix it.”
“I ruined it.”
“Then fix what you ruined.”
I spent three hours correcting the leg.
A week later, I sold the table.
The money wasn't much.
But something changed inside me.
I built another.
Then a shelf.
Then six chairs.
Teresa helped me photograph them.
She created a simple account online.
She insisted I keep records.
“Don't depend on me,” she said.
“I don't.”
“You are living in my house.”
“That doesn't mean I'm dependent.”
“It means exactly that.”
I hated hearing it.
But I listened.
Months passed.
I became better at woodworking.
I started earning more.
I bought better tools.
Then Teresa became sick with a fever.
I stayed awake beside her bed.
She was weak, sweating through her nightgown.
At three in the morning, she opened her eyes.
“You're still here.”
“Of course.”
“Why?”
I froze.
Because I wanted her house.
Because I owed her.
Because she had become the only person who had opened a door for me.
Because somewhere along the way, I had stopped thinking of her only as an opportunity.
I didn't know which answer was true.
“Because you need someone,” I said.
She stared at me.
Then she smiled faintly.
“That's the first honest thing you've said to me.”
She fell asleep.
I sat beside her until morning.
A year after we met, I was no longer sleeping in the truck.
Two years later, I had my own small workshop.
Three years later, I was selling custom furniture to cafés and restaurants.
And yet the old thought remained.
The house.
Whenever I walked through the living room, I noticed things I had once ignored.
The expensive dining table.
The paintings.
The old jewelry box.
The neighborhood.
The property value.
I hated myself for still calculating.
One afternoon, Teresa returned from the bank.
She placed a folder on the table.
I looked up.
“What is that?”
“Nothing.”
She sat down.
I noticed a document sticking from the folder.
Property valuation.
I tried not to stare.
Teresa watched me.
“Still interested?”
“No.”
She nodded.
“Good.”
But she didn't put the folder away.
Instead, she pushed it toward me.
“Then you should see something.”
I opened it.
The valuation was much higher than I expected.
Millions of pesos.
My hands became still.
Teresa leaned back.
For several seconds, neither of us spoke.
Then she said quietly:
“Now tell me you don't care about the house.”
I looked at the number.
Then at her.
“I don't.”
She smiled.
It wasn't a happy smile.
It was the smile of someone who had just confirmed something.
“Good,” she said.
“Because tomorrow, I want to ask you something.”
The next morning, Teresa placed a small ring box on the kitchen table.
May you like
And I realized she wasn't asking me to leave.
She was asking me to marry her.
