—Marga, there’s no need to be rude. I’m trying to help. I’ve spoken with Roberto. He’s coming this weekend. We’ve been talking… Maybe it would be best if you sold this ranch. It’s too big for you alone. You could move to an apartment in Mexico City, near him, or to an assisted living facility here in town.

“I’m not selling the ranch!” I shouted. “This is my home. This is my life.”

When Beatriz left, I went back to the wall. It was already almost a meter high. According to Guillermo’s plans, it was supposed to be over two meters tall and enclose the entire plot. Months of work remained. As I laid the stones, I thought about my son. Roberto was always pragmatic, like his father, but without his imagination.

Saturday arrived, and with it, Roberto’s car. He got out dressed in city clothes, wearing shoes that weren’t meant for walking on dirt, with the serious expression of someone who has to “solve problems.”

—Hi, Mom.

—Hi, son. What a surprise.

There was no hug. He stared at the wall, which was already advancing imposingly along the front of the ranch

—Mom, what is this madness?

“It’s not madness, Roberto. These are instructions from your father.”

—Mom, please… Dad was sick. Very sick.

“My heart was bad, Roberto. Not my head.”

“Look at this,” she pointed at the wall. “You’re building a colonial fortification! You’re thin, you’re dirty, your hands are covered in cuts!”

—I’m working.

—For what? To protect you from what?

—From coming winter

Roberto looked at me as if I had said I saw Martians.

—Winter? Mom, it’s October. It’s sunny. And even if it snowed, why would you need a two-meter wall?

—Your father discovered that this year a cycle is completed.

—What cycle? Mom, Dad had been retired for five years.

—He never stopped studying.

Roberto softened when he saw my red eyes.

—Mom, I’m sorry. I don’t want to fight. But I’m worried. People say you talk to yourself while you work.

—I don’t talk to myself. I think out loud.

—Mom, I’m staying for the weekend. But you have to promise me you’ll take a break from work. And I want to see those blueprints of Dad’s.

I showed him the leather folder. Roberto opened it and began examining the documents. His expression changed from disbelief to technical curiosity.

—Mom… these structural calculations are perfect. Drainage specifications, material strength… It was calculated for winds of over 140 kilometers per hour.

I handed him the letter.

—Read this.