My ex-wife’s mother smiled with a slight smirk and whispered to me: “Do you want to watch?” — I stood there completely paralyzed…
My name is Javier, I’m 35 years old, and eight months ago, my marriage to Paola ended. We were together for three years, and honestly, by the end, we couldn’t even be in the same room without arguing. Every little thing turned into a massive fight.
Deciding what to eat became a debate.
Deciding where to go for the weekend turned into a battle.
When we finally signed the divorce papers, I felt neither relief nor sadness. I only felt an emptiness and a profound exhaustion, as if I had been running a race that no one could win.
I packed my things and found a small apartment in Santa Fe, Mexico City. It was a quiet complex on the edge of major avenues, where people live fast, close their doors quickly, and no one stops to ask if you’re okay.
And that was exactly what I wanted.
I needed to be somewhere where I could breathe without someone asking how I was or giving me advice I didn’t ask for.
The apartment wasn’t much. Two bedrooms and a small balcony overlooking nearby rooftops and a few jacaranda trees. But it was mine. Only mine.
What I didn’t know when I signed the contract was who lived in the house right next door.
Paola’s mother.
Doña Leticia.
Yes, just as you hear it. My ex-wife’s mother was now my new neighbor.
I didn’t realize it until my second day there. I was taking boxes out of the car when I saw her come out of her front door. We both stopped and stared at each other as if time had frozen.
Her face turned pale.
And my stomach dropped to my feet.
She was the first to speak.
—“Javier,” —she said in a low voice—. “Paola didn’t tell me you had moved here.”
—“I don’t think she even knows,” —I replied, adjusting the heavy box in my arms—. “I didn’t know you lived here either.”
We stood there in a strange silence. Leticia had always been kind to me during my marriage to Paola. She never took sides when we argued. She was in her early fifties, but somehow she looked younger. She had brown hair with a few silver strands, always neatly styled. She had a quiet way about her that made you feel like everything was going to be okay, even when it wasn’t.
—“Well…” —she finally said with a small smile—. “I guess we’re neighbors now. Let me know if you need anything.”
And that was it. She went back inside her house. And I kept unpacking.
During the first few weeks, we hardly saw each other. I left early for my architecture office on Paseo de la Reforma, came back late, and kept to myself. She did the same. Sometimes I’d hear her door close in the morning or see her car pull into the parking lot at night. If we crossed paths by chance, we’d just exchange a small nod. It was awkward, but manageable.
The strange thing was that, even though she was Paola’s mother, it didn’t bother me to see her. In fact, it was a bit the opposite. There was something peaceful about knowing she was living right next door, like there was a small corner of calm in the middle of my messy life.
Her house always looked perfect. The flowerpots in her windows were full of colorful blooms. The patio had white furniture that looked like it came out of a magazine. Everything was organized and cared for. Meanwhile, my apartment was still half-empty, with boxes piled in the corners.
Then came that Thursday morning, and everything changed.
I woke up around 6:45 because I couldn’t sleep. My mind was doing that horrible thing of replaying every mistake I made with Paola. Every argument. Every moment I should have stayed quiet but didn’t. I got up and decided to water the herbs I had bought over the weekend at the market—those poor plants on the balcony that I always forgot to tend to.
The sun was just beginning to rise, painting the sky orange and pink. I filled an old plastic cup with water and stepped out onto the balcony. The air was cool and still—that soft chill typical of Mexico City mornings. A few birds were singing somewhere, and in the distance, you could hear the sound of a bus starting up on the street.
I started watering the withered basil, letting the water overflow because I wasn’t really paying attention. That was when I looked toward Leticia’s house.
Her living room window was right there, about six meters away. The blinds were open just enough for me to see clearly inside. She was by the kitchen counter preparing tea, wearing an elegant cream-colored silk robe. Her hair was loosely pulled up, with a few strands falling around her face. She was humming a soft melody I couldn’t recognize, moving through her kitchen as if she had all the time in the world.
I don’t know why I kept looking. I should have looked away immediately. I knew it was wrong to stand there watching inside someone’s home. But there was something about that scene that caught me. She looked so at peace. Completely comfortable in her own world. No tension in her shoulders. No worry on her face. Just tranquility.
And I hadn’t felt tranquility in so long that I had almost forgotten how it was supposed to feel.
I stood there frozen, holding the cup of water, letting it spill onto the balcony floor and soak my shoes. My heart was beating fast. But I couldn’t force myself to go back inside.
Then she turned her head.
And she looked directly at me.
Our gazes met through the glass. Time seemed to stop. My face turned red immediately. My hands began to shake. I wanted to run back into my apartment and hide under the covers like a child caught doing something wrong. But my legs wouldn’t cooperate. I stood there like an idiot.
The strange thing was, she didn’t look angry. She didn’t look embarrassed. Or scared. She simply looked at me with an expression of understanding, as if she knew exactly what was happening.
Then she smiled. Not a big smile. Just a small one that reached her eyes. She carefully placed her teacup on the counter. Then she walked toward the window.
She looked directly at me and said something. Although her voice was low, I could hear it clearly.
—“Do you want to watch?”
Then she slowly raised her hand… and closed the blinds.
I stood on that balcony for about five full minutes, staring at those closed blinds. My face was burning. My hands were shaking so much I had to put the cup down.
What did that mean? Was she mocking me? Was she angry and that was her way of telling me to mind my own business? Or was she serious?
Those five words kept repeating in my head like a song you can’t get out of your mind.
“Do you want to watch?”
Not with anger. Not with harshness. Just calm and direct… as if she had asked me a real question.
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