The witch knew the secret of my dead husband

The midday sun beat down mercilessly on the dusty road as Isabel pulled the old cart with her two hands reddened by the heat of the metal.

Each step raised a grey cloud that clung to his throat.

Behind her walked her seven children, lined up like a small defeated army, their shoulders slumped, their lips dry, their eyes too big for their gaunt faces.

There was almost nothing left in the cart.

Two bags of stale bread.

A torn cover.

A shirt with a hole that Isabel had promised to sew up.

And this immense fear, heavy as a stone, that night will fall before they find a place to sleep.

Since her husband’s death, everything had changed.

Before, the neighbors used to smile at him.

Before, the women used to talk to him at the well.

Before, the men in the village called her husband by his first name and gave him big pats on the back, as if Rafael were one of their own.

Then Rafael fell from some scaffolding at the old mill construction site.

That’s what we told Isabel.

An accident.

A fall.

Bad luck.

The case was closed in one day.

The body had been returned quickly, too quickly.

The foreman had refused to answer his questions.

The mayor, Don Esteban, had come to the funeral in his black suit, had placed a limp hand on his shoulder and had declared that the poor sometimes had to accept the will of heaven.

Isabel had not accepted.

Not really.

But with seven children to feed, grief hadn’t even had the decency to give her time to fall to her knees.

Very quickly, the doors had closed.

Her sister-in-law had said that she could not accommodate a tribe.

His brother had whispered that useless mouths always end up ruining a family.

The neighbors, for their part, looked away as if his misery were contagious.

For the village, Isabel was no longer the wife of Rafael, the honest man who repaired roofs and sang in the evenings when he came home from the construction site.

She had become a widow with seven children.

A weight.

A threat.

A shameful situation that reminded everyone that poverty could knock on any door.

That day, Mateo, her eldest son, was walking right behind her.

He was only twelve years old, but he kept his chin raised with a hardness that tugged at Isabel’s heart.

He was trying to appear strong to the younger children.

Yet, she could see her legs trembling.

Lucía, the youngest, was sucking on a round pebble to trick her stomach.

Rosa carried little Inés on her hip.

The twins, Tomás and Nico, walked on without complaining, which worried their mother more than cries.

Daniel brought up the rear, holding the blanket against him like a treasure.

Isabel was repeating a phrase in her head.

One more day.

Here’s another day.

Then she saw the body.

At the side of the road, half-hidden by dry grass, an old woman lay in the dust.

His black clothes were covered in dirt.

A trickle of blood had dried on his temple.

Her hands were open in front of her, raw and bruised, as if she had crawled for a long time before losing consciousness.

Mateo se raidit.

“Mom, no,” he murmured.

“Don’t come near.”

»

The children huddled close to Isabel.

Even Lucía removed the pebble from her mouth.

Isabel