“With these dead trees, you’ll learn the value of hard work,” her father told her with disdain. No one imagined that those seemingly useless trees held a secret that would change her destiny forever. While her older brothers, Raúl and Javier, had studied in the city and only returned for the holidays, she remained like a faithful shadow, cooking, cleaning, and attending to the needs of Don Ignacio, a man weathered by the sun and hardened by life.
That April morning, the office of Notary García smelled of old papers and polished wood. Don Ignacio had passed away three weeks earlier after a long illness, and today his will would be read. Elena sat in a corner, her hands clasped in her simple skirt, while her brothers occupied the central chairs in front of Walnut’s desk. “I will now read the last will and testament of Don Ignacio Mendoza Vázquez,” the notary announced, adjusting his glasses on the bridge of his nose.
Elena listened with a heavy heart. I wasn’t expecting great wealth, but at least I hoped to receive something that would allow me to start a life of my own after so many years of dedication. To my eldest son, Raúl Mendoza Ordóñez, I leave the family home and the irrigated land bordering the river, totaling 20 hectares. Raúl smiled with satisfaction. It was the best land in the region. To my second son, Javier Mendoza Ordóñez, I leave 10 hectares of olive groves and my grandmother’s house in the village, along with the tractor and farming implements.
Javier nodded with pleasure. The olive grove produced top-quality oil that sold for a good price. Elena held her breath. Now her share would come. And to my daughter, Elena Mendoza Ordóñez, I bequeath the plot of land on the hill with its orchard. The silence grew heavy. Elena blinked, confused. The plot on the hill was stony ground, far from the river, where her father had tried to plant some fruit trees years before. An abandoned project that no one had visited for a long time.
Raúl let out a stifled chuckle. “Is that all?” Elena asked in a whisper. The notary looked at her over the top of his glasses. “There’s a personal note your father left for you,” he said, handing her a sealed envelope. With trembling fingers, Elena opened the envelope and unfolded the sheet of paper inside. Her father’s irregular handwriting seemed to mock her. “Elena, I’m leaving you the withered trees on the hill. With these dead branches, you’ll learn the value of hard work, something you’ve never understood because you stayed home like a coward.
Perhaps this way you’ll learn what real work is.” Tears burned her eyes, but Elena didn’t let them fall. She folded the note and put it in her bag while the notary continued with formalities she no longer heard. “What an inheritance the old man left you,” Javier mocked as they stepped out into the sunny street. “Although, come to think of it, it’s only fair. We inherited what we helped build. You just stayed home.” “As if cooking, cleaning, and taking care of Dad during his illness weren’t work,” she replied bitterly.
“Any maid could have done it,” Raúl chimed in contemptuously. “We’ve really sweated in the fields and in business.” Elena pressed her lips together and walked away without a word. The village’s cobblestone streets watched her walk with her back straight and her gaze lost in thought. She wouldn’t cry; she wouldn’t give them that satisfaction. When she got home, she packed a small backpack with water and some food. She needed to see her inheritance, to understand with her own eyes the magnitude of her father’s final mockery.
The path to the plot of land on the hill was steep and lonely. After almost an hour’s walk under the midday sun, Elena reached the rusty gate that marked the entrance. The padlock was corroded, but the key the notary had given her worked. After several attempts, what she saw broke her heart. A hectare of stony land, where some twenty fruit trees stood like twisted skeletons—apple, pear, plum, and cherry trees that her father had planted fifteen years earlier and then abandoned when the drought made them seem to die.
Elena approached the nearest tree, an apple tree with a twisted trunk. The bark was dry and cracked. The bare branches pointed to the sky like accusing fingers. “There was no sign of leaves, flowers, or fruit, just dry branches,” she murmured, remembering her father’s cruel words. She collapsed into the meager shade of one of those trees and finally allowed the tears to flow freely. She wept for the injustice, for the lost years, for the postponed dreams. She wept until she had no more tears left.
As the sun began to set, Elena sat up and looked around with new eyes. This was her legacy, however wretched it might be. He could sell it for four pesetas and leave, or he could… He approached the apple tree again and almost instinctively scratched the bark lightly with his fingernail. Under the surface
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