Inheritance of Shadows

VIII

Javier woke before dawn, the room faintly lit by the last trace of moonlight filtering through the curtains. His thoughts shifted immediately to his wife and daughter—they would be landing at the Mexico City airport in a few hours, and he had a long drive ahead to reach them. As he gathered his things, he paused by the window, looking out over the courtyard and toward the quiet village. The faint sounds of dawn filled the air: birds stirring in the trees, horses neighing from a neighbor’s stable, and roosters beginning their morning songs, each call echoing in the crisp mountain air.

Before climbing into his uncle Benito's truck, he turned to face the family house, murmuring, “I won’t be long, Mom.” He felt a pang as he realized just how much was at stake, not just for him but for the family legacy his mother had devoted her life to protecting.

The drive down the mountain was winding and steep, and as he descended, the lush, forested slopes of San Miguel Topilejo gave way to the urban sprawl of Mexico City. He pushed through the city traffic, navigating aggressive drivers and nearly missing turns. Finally, he reached the airport, an hour early, and started pacing in the arrivals area, glancing repeatedly at the flight information screen, watching the minutes tick by.

When he finally saw his wife, Victoria, holding little Victoria in her arms, a wave of relief and joy surged through him. She looked radiant, even after the long flight, and he hugged them both, holding them so tightly he could feel his daughter wriggling in protest. It had been weeks since they’d seen each other, and he felt a sense of grounding in their presence that he’d sorely missed.

The air outside was chilly as they loaded into the truck, with little Victoria marveling at everything around her, wide-eyed and pointing at passing cars and buildings. As they started the climb back up the mountains, his wife asked, “Would you like for us to live here, Javier?”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he looked out at the forested hills rising ahead, remembering the times his mother had taken him to the fields, teaching him the names of trees and flowers, instilling in him a love for the land. Finally, he said, “There’s so much history here. Our families built this place, and I want the kids to experience it, to know where they come from.”

Victoria nodded. “Then that’s what we’ll do,” she said, squeezing his hand.

They arrived back in the village as the morning sun crested the peaks, lighting up the cobblestone streets. The smell of cooking food and the sounds of people stirring were filling the air. Javier suggested they stop for breakfast before heading to the house. “There’s a place in the market my mom used to take us,” he said, guiding them to a barbacoa stand.

The vendor greeted Javier warmly, recognizing him instantly despite the years. “Consomé and half a kilo, please,” Javier ordered. They sat on small stools, and he watched as little Victoria tried a spoonful of the rich, hot broth, her face lighting up with joy. Victoria smiled as she tasted it as well, savoring the flavors that held so many memories for Javier. This was the first time in a long while that he felt truly connected to his past and his future.

After breakfast, they made their way to the family house, its grandeur faded but still striking in its way. Even in its worn state, his wife and daughter looked around with awe. Inside, they decided to rest before going to the village center to pick up his mother’s death certificate. While his wife settled with the baby, Javier stepped out onto the balcony, taking in the sweeping view over the village. From up here, he could see the newer homes dotting the hillsides, the farms in the distance, and the plaza at the heart of the village. He made a quiet vow to himself to protect this heritage, to keep his family’s name and legacy alive.

They woke from their nap refreshed and made their way to the village center, where everyone recognized Javier and greeted his family warmly. As they strolled toward the town hall, Javier’s heart felt full seeing his wife and daughter greeted so kindly, treated as though they belonged.

When they entered the town hall, they encountered Carlos Olvera, the village’s mayor, whose reputation was as unpleasant as his smile. Javier remembered his mother’s dislike for Carlos, who was known for shady dealings and had somehow retained his position despite it. “Ah, Javier Betancourt,” Carlos greeted with exaggerated warmth, “and this must be your lovely wife and daughter. It’s wonderful to see the family return.” His eyes held a hint of something else—calculation, perhaps, or suspicion.

They politely exchanged goodbyes, and Victoria and little Victoria didn’t sense the undercurrent of tension, but Javier made a mental note to be cautious. After all, Carlos was the sort who might exploit any weakness he could find. They reached the health records office, and Javier submitted the required paperwork to retrieve his mother’s death certificate. With the certificate in hand, they then went to the notary’s office.

The notary reviewed everything meticulously before sliding a binder across the table—a leather-bound portfolio that held the deeds to the estate, the lands, and his mother’s standing in the local agricultural association. Javier could feel the weight of the family’s legacy in his hands. He signed where necessary, and as each document was stamped, he felt the reality settle over him: he was now the guardian of the Betancourt legacy.

On their way back to the house, his wife looked at him thoughtfully. “What now?” she asked.

He shook his head, uncertain. “I don’t know,” he admitted. The responsibility felt immense. As they walked, thoughts of his mother filled his mind, and he felt both a deep pride and a profound sense of duty.