While her daughter's life was turning into a gray swamp, Mercedes's life blossomed like a jacaranda in spring. The house in San Ángel turned out to be much more than four walls. It was a sanctuary. Mercedes spent the first few weeks cleaning, not because she had to, but because she wanted to sweep away the dust of oblivion. She opened the windows to let in the sun and fresh air to dispel the musty smell.
With her inheritance money, Mercedes didn't buy herself jewelry or take trips. "Why would I want those things?" she told Father Tomás one day when he came to visit her. "What isn't shared rots, Father."
So Mercedes did what she did best: take care of things. She hired a gardener to revive the backyard, which was full of withered rose bushes. "Cut off the bad parts, son, the roots are still good," she instructed him. "With water and love, everything grows back."
And so it was. In less than two months, the garden was a burst of color. And the house, which had been lifeless, came alive. Mercedes started cooking. She made huge pots of pozole, tamales, and guava atole. But not just for herself. Every Tuesday and Thursday, she opened the iron gate. "Come on in!" she called to the construction workers across the street, the women selling sweets on the corner, the hungry children coming home from school. "There's a hot taco here for anyone who wants one."
