It began with something so ordinary I barely gave it a second thought: my washing machine started leaking. Annoyed but pragmatic, I called a repair service. A young technician showed up, fixed the issue in no time, and packed up his tools. I thanked him, paid, and walked him to the door.
That’s when everything shifted.
Just as he reached the threshold, his cheeks flushed and he extended a tiny folded slip of paper toward me. I hesitated before opening it, thinking it might be a receipt I’d forgotten. Instead, the message read: “Please call me. It’s about someone you know.”
My first reaction? Strange. Strange enough that I nearly tossed it in the trash. But something about the young man—his lowered eyes, the tremor in his fingers—made me stop. His name was Ruben, around twenty-five, quiet and respectful. He hardly seemed like the type to hand cryptic notes to a graying woman in comfortable clothes surrounded by mismatched socks.
A Phone Call That Turned My World Upside Down
The next morning, curiosity defeated hesitation, and I dialed the number. Ruben picked up immediately.
“Hi, I’m… the washing machine lady,” I said, suddenly self-conscious.
He let out a breath. “Thanks for calling. I didn’t know how else to approach this. Um… do you know someone named Felix Deren?”
Hearing that name felt like someone had grabbed the air out of my lungs. I dropped onto the couch.
Felix—my ex-husband.
We hadn’t spoken in seven years, not since our rough divorce. He’d disappeared somewhere out west, and because we had no children or property to tie us together, the silence just calcified. Everyone said I was better off. Still, there was a time when I believed he hung the moon.
“Yes… I knew him,” I said cautiously. “Why?”
A soft pause. Then Ruben said, “He was my father.”
I could only stare at the wall.
“I didn’t want to scare you,” he added quickly. “I only found out a few months ago—after he passed.”
Passed.
The word hit like a stone.
“He died?” I whispered.
“In February.”
It was already June.