One afternoon, I went down to the park as usual. I sat on the same bench where I used to chat with other women.

That day, I didn’t talk much.

I watched the children run and thought about Mariana when she was that age.

I had always believed that the love between a mother and daughter never changed.

Maybe it hadn’t changed.

Maybe life had simply grown around that love.

One night, when Mariana came home from work, she found me in the kitchen washing a cup.

“Mom,” she said, “I was thinking… next month we could organize the household expenses better. The city is very expensive.”

I nodded calmly.

“Of course, my daughter.”

She seemed relieved.

She didn’t know that by then, I had already made my decision.

The day I left was a Tuesday morning.

Mariana and Javier had gone to work as usual.

The apartment was silent.

I finished closing my suitcase. It wasn’t large. At my age, you learn you don’t really need that many things.

I left the room tidy.

The bed made.

The window closed.

On the kitchen table, I left a small letter for Mariana.

I didn’t write much.

Just a few lines.

Then I took the elevator one last time.

When the doors closed, I looked at my reflection in the metal mirror.

A sixty-three-year-old woman with a simple suitcase.

I wasn’t crying.

When I stepped out of the building, the morning air was fresh.

For the first time in a long time, I felt something like peace.

Because sometimes leaving doesn’t mean losing.

Sometimes leaving is the only way to find yourself again.

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