Chapter 43 - The Quiet Sunday
Following the whirlwind of the Bellas Artes exhibition, Sunday came as a profound, welcome relief—a day of absolute silence, unhurried rest, and domestic harmony in Coyoacán.
The courtyard was deserted, save for Barnaby the dog—who had somehow become part of our extended family mythology across borders—dozing in a patch of warm sunlight near the fountain.
I spent the morning sitting on the second-story veranda with a sketchbook in my lap, casually designing a new geometric pattern for the autumn apprentice curriculum, while Mateo was in the kitchen preparing a leisurely brunch of migas and fresh coffee.
The smell of sizzling garlic, cilantro, and warm corn tortillas drifted up through the open windows, mixing with the sweet scent of blooming jasmine.
Mateo walked out onto the veranda carrying a large wooden tray laden with breakfast plates, setting it down on the low iron table before pulling up a chair beside me.
"Operation Sunday Brunch is officially complete," Mateo announced, pouring two mugs of coffee. "No schedules, no committee meetings, and no cultural attachés until Monday morning."
"You say that like you didn't enjoy the Bellas Artes gala," I laughed, closing my sketchbook and reaching for a plate.
May you like
"The gala was magnificent," Mateo admitted, smiling warmly. "But I prefer quiet mornings on the veranda with you far more than crystal chandeliers."
We ate in companionable silence, watching the sunlight shift across the terracotta tiles. There was no urgency, no external pressure, and no hidden agendas. We had conquered the syndicate, restored our heritage, and built an academy that would inspire generations. But more than all of that, we had found each other in the wreckage and built an unshakeable life of absolute truth.
