Rebeca knows all too well the nuance hidden behind those words, and she doesn’t need to ask what he means.
Luckily, she isn’t looking directly at the camera at that moment.
She turns around and looks back at the picture she’s just hung. She takes a step back, then another, assessing the composition of the wall as if the question had never been asked, her hands resting on her hips.
The silence stretches on for a few seconds.
“Rebeca?” her mother insists.
She lets out a soft sigh before finally turning toward the computer.
“It’s going as it should,” Rebeca replies, shrugging. “It’s not easy, but I suppose I’ll get used to it.” She pauses briefly. “What I can’t quite get used to is that she’s married to Julia.”
The sentence hangs in the air as if it were part of a typical Sunday conversation, something that could be mentioned with the same lightness as the weather or the week’s news. But it isn’t.
On the screen, her mother purses her lips slightly.
“Yeah…” she replies cautiously. “We were surprised too when the family told us. It was… unexpected.”
Rebeca doesn’t respond. She simply leans her weight against the table as she waits.
“Those two don’t go together at all,” her mother adds, with brutal honesty.
“For God’s sake, honey,” Rebeca’s father interjects. “Don’t talk like that.”
“It’s the truth,” the woman insists, shrugging her shoulders in an almost defiant gesture. “Rebeca has always been the perfect match for Martina. Always.”
The silence that follows is immediate.
Rebeca feels something tighten inside her, a kind of discomfort that pierces her chest as if someone were pricking her with a needle. Her mother’s words echo in her head.
For a few seconds, no one says a word. Not even Roberto, who usually has a comment ready to ease the tension.
Rebeca looks away toward the living room window. The sky, which just an hour ago was covered by a uniform layer of clouds, begins to darken rapidly.
Then the doorbell rings, and the sound feels almost providential.
“It’s the pizza I ordered for lunch,” Rebeca says, taking advantage of the interruption.
“Junk food again?” her mother protests immediately.
“She probably didn’t have time to cook, and not everyone can drive over to eat your stews,” Roberto interjects with a crooked smile. “Leave her alone, Mom.”
Rebeca is already walking toward the door.
When she returns a few seconds later with the pizza boxes stacked in her arms, the tension has eased slightly.
“Well,” she says as she sets the boxes on the table. “I’m going to be on my way now.”
Her father raises a hand in a wave goodbye.
“Take care.”
“I promise I’ll be back in a couple of weeks,” Rebeca adds.
“You’d better,” her mother replies with a smile that tries to hide her emotion. “And bring that friend of yours from work. Well, if you want to, of course.”
Rebeca feels a lump in her throat but hides it with a brief laugh.
