They met on a Thursday afternoon, when the light was no longer quite day, but night had not yet arrived.
That soft light that makes people lower their voices and that makes hallways seem warmer and not so coldNeither of them was fond of painting workshops, nor guided activities, nor places where someone tells you how you should feel or think. They didn't like talking about their lives.Clara felt uncomfortable with the circles of chairs where they had to sit. Aurora disliked the obligatory and forced dynamics.The two wanted the opposite: their space, silence, and to be authentic.They didn't understand why, when they entered a place because they were older, people raised their voices and spoke to them with exaggerated enunciation.The two met in a small, quiet coffee shop, where no one rushes you to consume or gives you a strange look if you occupy a table for hours with a single cup of coffee, without having to order anything else.Clara had come in because her legs hurt a little and she wanted to rest; Aurora, because she liked to sit near the large bay window, watch people walk by, and see the children running around.They sat next to each other because it was the only table available.I believe that important things aren't planned: they turn out better without speeches.Clara first noticed Aurora's hands, without her realizing it: hands with a history, with small age spots, short, very clean nails, a few unostentatious pieces of jewelry.
Aurora observed Clara's eyes: calm eyes, full of history, the kind that have cried enough not to need to demonstrate inner strength.
"—Do you mind if I leave my bag here?" Aurora asked softly. "I'm going to the restroom."—No, no, not at all —Clara replied
That's how it all began. Not with grand pronouncements, just with a courtesy. But there was something important: an immediate sense of ease. Two unpretentious women, no pretense. They were tired of it already.
As the minutes passed, they exchanged small talk: about how good the coffee was and how strange the warmth was in the middle of December.
Nothing important, but something began to settle between them: a rare peace, with no need to act at any time.
Aurora broke the silence naturally. The two agreed that they didn't like attending organized activities or feeling watched.
They didn't want to behave a certain way to fit in.
Little by little, without realizing it, they began to talk about deeper things: about having spent their whole lives playing roles to please.Clara had been the responsible daughter, the tender and understanding wife, the mother who was always there, who never complained.
Aurora had been the strong one: she supported the whole family, solved everything, and always fought.
They shared a silent weariness: they had lived looking more outward than inward.
"Do you know what's been happening to me lately?" Clara said after a pause. "For the first time, I don't have anyone depending on me... and I'm learning who I am when I'm not taking care of anyone. And that's difficult."
Aurora smiled tenderly.
—That has a name in psychology: coming home, or identity reconstruction. That phrase struck her. Coming home, not to a physical place, but to ourselves.
They started to run into each other often. They chose that place at that time. They never said "see you tomorrow"; however, there they were. They talked about their routines, about the slowness of their hours, and about the peace they felt discovering that living alone was not sadness.
—People get scared when I say I live alone —Aurora commented one day—, as if I were confessing something horrible.—They look at me with pity —Clara said—. I don't feel worthy of pity. I am calm.They talked a lot about it
Psychology distinguishes between emotional loneliness and chosen loneliness, Aurora's daughter always used to say: the former hurts because there is internal disconnection; the latter heals because there is presence.
—I didn't study psychology —Aurora would say—, but I live it exactly like that.
They didn't have to play roles. Just accompany the silence, listen to their emotions, their own bodies.
There was silence and a deep listening to true desires. —Before, I used to feel guilty for sitting down if I had nothing to do —Clara said.—They taught us that rest was a luxury —Aurora replied—. Now we are learning that it is a very important necessity.And so, almost without realizing it, they were practicing something profoundly therapeutic and healthy: permission to say no and a friendship without demands.The most beautiful thing about their relationship was precisely what didn't exist: pressure, obligations.If one was late, the other didn't botherIf one was quieter, explanations were not demanded of her.If days passed without seeing each other, the reunion was just as warm and affectionate. One day Clara said it was the healthiest relationship she had ever had. Aurora looked at her with sweetness and tenderness.—Because now it's not about filling voids —Aurora said—. Now we share fullness: a secure bond, wanting without possession, and accompanying without invading.
That was exactly what psychology describes as a secure attachment.
Old age as a stage of truth. They spoke many times about age, about their fears.Aurora expressed it one afternoon with a clarity that moved her already friend Clara:—I think this stage of life is the only one where we no longer have to prove anything. And that is a wonderful gift. My daughter says this moment is the time of vital integration, when a person can look at their history with acceptance, without judgment.
And that was what they were doing. They didn't deny the pain they had lived through, but neither did they punish themselves for it.
They looked at each other with understanding.They weren't needed: they were chosen, which is something much nicer. They were still complete women even when they were apart.
Two women who had learned, late but in time, that life doesn't end when others no longer need you: life began there.
They were not alone. The mornings that belonged to themOver time, they discovered there was something they valued almost as much as their encounters: their mornings alone at home.The clock no longer dictated. They didn't prepare any more breakfasts than his. There were no lists of a thousand obligations. These mornings were solely his.Aurora woke up early, but no longer out of obligation.
She would stay a few more minutes in bed, listening to the silence of her house as one listens to delicate music. Sometimes she would smell that cologne she used to put on her children before they went to school.
She would get up slowly, wrap herself in her favorite robe, and prepare her coffee with almost ceremonial care. That smell filled her with beautiful memories every morning.Always the same mug: white, with a small crack she didn't want to throw away.—Before, I was always worried about whether others were late, if they had had breakfast, if they needed anything… and I forgot about myself —she once told Clara—. Now, for the first time, I only ask myself: how am I today?Clara understood her perfectly.She had a similar ritual: sometimes she sat in absolute silence; other times, she left the radio on low.—I've learned to enjoy my own company —she confessed to Aurora—. Before, that seemed unthinkable to me. I thought being alone was sad. And now… now is when I feel most at peace.There was something else that gave meaning to that stage of their lives: their children's visits.When her children visited, when her grandchildren filled the house with voices and movement, her heart swelled. It was food for the soul.Clara said it with a serene smile:—I'm happy when they come. I love hearing their stories, seeing how the grandchildren grow, preparing meals with time, with what they like. And then I'm also happy when they leave and I return to my calm.Aurora always nodded, that was the nice thing now.And the most important thing was that their children noticed it: they noticed that their mothers were no longer subdued, that there was light in their eyes.—Mom, you seem calm —Clara’s daughter told her once as they cleared the table—. You seem happy with yourself. And they hugged each other with a long hug, the kind that doesn’t need words.Now, without reproaches or painful sacrifices, they were offering something very beautiful: the example of a woman at peace with herself, and with the world.Aurora then remembered a phrase by Benito Pérez Galdós, which she had read some time ago and which now took on a new meaning:"Nothing is as powerful as the serenity of a soul that has understood." This is a quiet, but immense, tribute to all the women who sustained life and who now, finally, live it with joy and much peace.
