But this morning something was different.
As he approached Gabriel’s grave, he slowed down.
There was someone.
A young woman knelt before the stone, holding a little girl who was sobbing softly. The modest bouquet of daisies she had placed there was a stark contrast to the expensive roses Margarete always brought.
“Who are you?” Margarete asked, her voice cutting through the silence like a blade. “What are you doing at my son’s grave?”
The young woman turned away in fear and quickly wiped away her tears. She was a simple girl, barely 25 years old, her face marked by sleepless nights, and her eyes reflected more pain than anyone so young could ever see.
The child in her arms, a little girl with blonde hair, looked at Margarete with big, curious eyes, like those of people who are just discovering the world.
“I… I’m sorry,” Julia Santos muttered as she stood up, still with the baby on her hip. “I didn’t mean to bother you, I was just getting ready to leave.”
“Wait!” Margarete ordered, blocking his path.
“You didn’t answer my question. How do you know my son?”
Julia swallowed and hugged the child to her as if seeking shelter. The girl began to gurgle and reached out her tiny hands to touch her mother’s face.
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