She observed the way her statement had rooted me to the spot and continued with a lament that was more dispassionate than anguished.

“I’m just sorry I won’t be able to do what I’d been planning for years,” she said.

“And what was that?”

“Something I wanted to write. You’re not the only one who writes in this family.”

I knew all about my mother’s passion for reading, but I wasn’t aware that she harboured an interest in writing. After this confession, I wanted to learn more about the nature of what she was writing and how important it was that she finish it, but my mother was evasive when fielding my questions. She played down the importance of the desire she had just divulged and immediately directed the conversation towards the book she was reading, a novel by Dickens.

Then we talked about her illness. I tried to give her some encouragement. I added that I would come to be with her every weekend that my activities allowed, but when she heard this promise, some of her old energy seemed to surface in her reply.

“I don’t want you here every weekend,” she said. “There are things I have to put in order and I need some time, without people coming to bother me.”

That was my mother down to a T. Someone who, instead of politely explaining to her son that she would prefer to be alone so she could see to her affairs, opts for a caustic remark that banishes any chance of people interfering in the final stage of her existence. What was I to do? What I ended up doing, which was return to London and see what possibilities there were of paying a visit with prudent, restrained phone calls in which I was forced to interpret her words and silences with the utmost caution.

My mother. The Indomitable. Never, as in those days, did I curse a family situation that obliged me to confront the situation without the intimate communion of blood ties. I had no brother or sister I could call to exchange impressions and offer support during the irreversible process. Those relatives who were closest to the patient (her physical state had taken hold of any distinguishing features in her human condition) were her nephews and niece – Rubén, Pablo and Cristina – but no sooner had I hinted at the possibility of letting them know than she ruled it out at once.

“I don’t want obligatory visits or false commiseration,” she said that first day. “From now on, I’m only here for you and Elena.”

The next four months offered little change with regard to the natural progression of her illness. Every fortnight, on a Friday or a Saturday, I would catch the plane in London and return to Pontevedra, where I would spend two or three days, having lunch with my mother and walking around the city. Like everybody else who has been used to living on their own for years, she considered the presence of a human being in the private sphere of her life an intrusion which she tolerated with more resignation than happiness. Our meetings during those last few months, therefore, were as frequent as she chose them to be.

All the same, I have to admit on each of my visits the moment I pressed the doorbell of her apartment returned us both to an affectionate feeling that, in my case, I could scarcely remember. While we were enjoying the tranquillity of a park or having lunch in a restaurant in the old quarter, my mother would conduct long, extended conversations on some theme. The first few times, I was afraid the conversations would focus on her health, but I soon realized this concern was superfluous. In the same way she hid the most visible effects of the treatment on her body, the wrinkled face and loss of hair, with a light layer of make-up and an ostentatious blue hat, she also seemed to cover any temptation to have worried thoughts with a cloth of words on aspects of the surrounding reality.

I can hardly say her attitude surprised me. If there was something that characterized my mother, it was the tranquillity with which she accepted events. Something she was capable of mixing with an iron will that was rarely defeated before achieving its objectives. As for the final verdict represented by her diagnosis, one might say she acquiesced with exemplary serenity. There were times she even seemed to forget the limited extension of time at her disposal. Probably we both forced ourselves to forget this in order not to turn our meetings into scenes of premature mourning prior to the inevitable event, which took place seven months after it was first announced.

Her death handed me the responsibility of taking charge of her property in Pontevedra. My plan was to close the bookshop, which had been her occupation, but was now a business without profit, and to sell her apartment as soon as the housing market improved a little.

These were the goals I had set myself when I received her final letter after three months. As soon as I read it, I felt an unexpected door was opening through which a past I thought was definitely closed, or on the verge of being so, threatened to enter. During the days that followed, I couldn’t help rereading it over and over again.

Dear Son,

I know I wasn’t a model mother to you. There must have been many moments in your life when you missed my presence or words that might have given you some encouragement in what you were aiming for, or else perhaps some comprehension and affection when you made a mistake or felt alone. I didn’t do this, and I’m not going to ask your forgiveness now for my attitude or seek a reconciliation that will be too late. You know that’s not the way I do things. Nor do I especially believe that posthumous redemption can be obtained by the simple merit of asking for it. To confess now that the whole of my relationship with you, however cold and distant it may have seemed, was guided by a wish to make you stronger so you could lead your life with greater success is no consolation to me. Nor does the thought that with the opposite attitude I may have caused you irreparable harm take away the sorrow I feel at contemplating such a perverse outcome. None of that can be helped. But there are still things it is in my hands to correct.

One day, some weeks ago, we had a conversation in which I told you everybody hides the truth about their life. I knew very well what I was talking about. That’s right. There are many things in my life you don’t know about. In your current capacity as a father, I am sure this is a situation that will evoke your immediate understanding. The kind of stories I never told you, however, will not let me leave this life without offering you the chance to unearth them. This is a decision I have been pondering for years, but only succeeded in taking a few weeks ago, not without enormous doubt and wavering. I just hope I haven’t made a mistake. That is why I have taken the precaution of leaving it up to you whether you go down the path I am showing you – or not.

In this house of mine in Pontevedra, so full of books and papers of all kinds, in the trunk in the library, among my things, you will find several handwritten pages. That is where I wrote down the memory of some particularly significant episodes in my life. I started doing this a few years ago, but without any constancy or fixed order. Simply, whenever I had the time and peace of mind and disposed of the energy, I would confront this task. The uncertainty of my proposal, together with the lack of conviction that almost always overwhelmed me whenever I undertook the task, will explain why the result is fragmentary and necessarily incomplete. And yet I dare to venture that the facts I reveal will not leave you feeling indifferent. That is why I offer you this final warning: do not read them if what you want is to continue enjoying a peaceful life in which the past is simply the exemplary history you have known until now. In that case, you have my permission to gather my papers and destroy them without the slightest hint of remorse. On the other hand, if you decide to read what they say, it is highly likely a sense of unease will disturb your sleep at night and, in the daytime, pose questions you will find difficult to answer. All knowledge comes at a price, although not everybody is prepared to pay it.

There is nothing left for me to say. I am writing this letter in one of the last moments of lucidity remaining to me, no doubt. If my will is respected, you will receive this letter three months after my death. I consider it necessary for you to have this margin of time so that the decision you take with regard to what I have just told you is not influenced by the emotion of an absence that is all too recent. I will only add that I have always loved you and wish you a happy life in keeping with what you desire to be in each moment.

Your mother.