Fran P. Lorenzo

Sample

Over fifteen years had passed, and my mother still referred to that summer night in 1960 as the Night of the Fall. This poetic ellipsis turned my father’s suicide into an involuntarily fatal act, and more importantly, spared her the pain of looking for explanations. My father’s death cast a pall over my mother’s soul and turned our apartment in Gran Vía n˚2 into an embassy of wretchedness. Without realizing it, and maybe without meaning to, my father, Ramón Costa, a sales and transport agent and the delegated executor of the Beckmann Family Trust, had inked the final period in a tale that was as much ours as it was his. My name, Paula Costa Beckmann, appears in the first lines of a new saga: I’m the three-year-old girl crying in the dark.

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