On the morning of April 3, 1789, she arrived in Veracruz with a stifling heat that made the air boil over the cobblestones of the main market. Doña Catalina Medina de Vega adjusted her black mantilla as she observed the row of chained slaves in front of the makeshift wooden platform.

It had been three months since she had buried Don Fernando, her husband, and the sugar plantation desperately needed workers. The creditors wouldn’t wait beyond the next month, and her two children were still too young to understand that the family fortune hung by a thread. The auctioneer shouted out prices while the buyers examined the slaves’ teeth, muscles, and scars like someone inspecting cattle.

Catalina had sold her most valuable jewels days before, and in the pocket of her black skirt she carried barely 17 silver cents, all she had left after paying her most pressing debts—a paltry sum, insufficient even to buy a sick or useless slave.
At the end of the line, almost hidden by the shadow of an abandoned carriage, Catalina noticed a young man she hadn’t seen before. He couldn’t have been more than 25, but his face bore the marks of someone who had known unimaginable suffering. His dark skin was covered in whip marks, his hair was shaved in a patchy fashion, and his eyes stared at the ground with a mixture of resignation and something else she couldn’t immediately identify.

What caught her attention most was that he wore heavier shackles than the others, and two armed guards were watching him specifically. “And who’s that?” Catalina asked the auctioneer, a fat man with a Moroccan surname who smelled of rum and stale sweat. Marroquín spat on the floor and shook his head.

That one’s not even fit for fieldwork, ma’am. He’s trouble. He’s tried to escape three times. His last master nearly beat him to death, and he still didn’t learn. I’m selling him just to get rid of him before he causes any more trouble. How much are you asking for him? 20 cents. But for you, a respectable lady, 17 is fine. I just want someone to take him today. Catalina felt a chill that had nothing to do with the heat.

Exactly 17 cents. It was as if fate were playing a cruel joke on him. With trembling hands, he took the coins from his pocket. The auctioneer counted them quickly. He spat into his palm to seal the deal, as was the custom, and shouted to the guards to release the slave from the common chain, though they kept his personal shackles on.

When the young man finally looked up, Catalina felt the world stop. She knew those eyes, those impossible eyes, but she knew them. A brown so deep it appeared black in certain lights, with tiny golden flecks near the pupils. For an endless second, their gazes met, and she saw something that chilled her blood: recognition. The slave had recognized her too.

The return trip to the San Jerónimo hacienda took four hours under the relentless sun. Catalina rode in her modest carriage pulled by an old mule, while the slave walked behind, tied to the vehicle by a rope. He didn’t speak during the entire journey, but Catalina could feel his gaze fixed on the back of her neck, trying to pierce her soul with his eyes. The hacienda had seen better days.

What was once a prosperous estate now showed signs of neglect and mismanagement by Don Fernando in his later years. The foreman, a mestizo named Macario, greeted the new slave with a mixture of curiosity and disdain. “This scrawny fellow is all Doña Catalina could afford. God help us.”

“What’s your name?” For the first time, the slave spoke. His voice was deep, hoarse from disuse, but there was a carefully cultivated devotion in it that didn’t suit his condition. “My name is Tomás.” Macario slapped him hard. “Here you don’t speak until you’re asked directly, dog, and you’ll say, ‘My master, or sir, to Don Macario.’ Understood?” Tomás didn’t answer, but he didn’t take his eyes off the ground either.

Catalina intervened in a firm voice. “Take him to the barracks and feed him. Tomorrow he’ll begin his milling duties. And Macario, without unnecessary violence—this man cost everything I had.” That night Catalina couldn’t sleep. She sat by her bedroom window, staring at the slave barracks across the yard.

A single torch illuminated the entrance, casting dancing shadows on the adobe walls. She tried to convince herself that her mind was playing tricks on her, that exhaustion and despair were making her see things that weren’t there. But she couldn’t get those eyes out of her head, nor the absolute certainty she had felt when she looked into them.

He stood up and walked to the small desk where he kept his personal belongings. From the bottom drawer, wrapped in a worn silk cloth, he took out a silver medallion he hadn’t opened in years. His hands trembled as he opened it. Inside was a miniature portrait painted 16 years earlier by a traveling artist who had passed through Veracruz.

The face gazing back at her from the medallion was young, full of life and hope, with those same brown eyes flecked with gold. The portrait was of her first love, Rafael Montes, the son of a Portuguese merchant who had come to Mexico with dreams of prosperity. They had met when she was just 17, before her father forced her to marry Don Fernando Medina de Vega, a wealthy landowner 30 years her senior.

Rafael was poor, nameless, and untitled, and her father had deemed him utterly unacceptable. The last time she saw Rafael was the night before her forced marriage to Fernando. They met secretly in the gardens of St. John’s Church, beneath a starry sky that seemed to mock her despair. He had sworn to her that he would find a way to become rich, to be worthy of her, and that he would return for her.

She had wept in his arms, knowing it was an impossible promise. Two weeks after their wedding, she received a letter. Rafael had sailed south on a merchant ship, seeking his fortune in Guatemala. She never heard from him again. As the years passed, she assumed he had died in one of the many misfortunes that befell travelers in those times.

Disease, pirates, shipwrecks, or simply the misery that consumed so many. But now, gazing at that portrait by candlelight, Catalina could not deny what she had seen. Tomás had the same eyes, the same jawline, the same bearing despite being bent with suffering. He was older, broken, barely recognizable, but she knew deep in her soul that it was him. Rafael Montes, her first love, had become a slave.

Questions crowded her mind, unanswered. How had she ended up in this condition? Why had he never tried to look for her? Had he really recognized her at the market? And the question that terrified her most: what would she do now with this truth? At dawn the next day, Catalina went down to the patio before anyone else woke up.

She found Macario assigning tasks to the slaves who stood in a silent line, their heads bowed. Tomás was at the end, still wearing the same iron shackles on his ankles. “Macario,” he said, “I need this man to work in the main house today. There are repairs to be done in the library, and I need someone who can read to organize my late husband’s papers.”

The foreman looked at her in surprise. “A slave in the main house, ma’am, is not appropriate. Besides, how do you know she can read?” “It’s an intuition, and this is my house, Macario, do as I say.” An hour later, Tomás was in the library, a dusty room filled with books that Fernando had collected but never read.

Catalina closed the door behind her and stood before him, studying every line of his face in the light streaming through the window. “Look at me,” she commanded, her voice soft but firm. He obeyed slowly, raising his head. Up close, she could see the scars that marked his face, the way his hands trembled slightly, the weight of years of suffering etched into every premature wrinkle, but they were the same eyes.

And now that she looked at him closely, she could also see the same shape of his lips, the small birthmark near his left ear. Rafael, she whispered. The slave closed his eyes and a tear rolled down his cheek. When he opened them again, there was no longer any pretense in his gaze. Catalina. She recoiled as if she had been struck, bringing a hand to her mouth. It was real. Everything was real.

The air in the room seemed to grow thick, unbreathable. How could he manage to utter all that he could? Rafael slumped into a chair without permission, a gesture that would have earned him blows from any master. But Catalina didn’t stop him. His voice cracked when he began to speak. The ship he was traveling on had sunk off the coast of Guatemala.

I survived clinging to a piece of wood for two days. Some fishermen rescued me, but they turned out to be slave traders. They sold me to an indigo plantation. I tried to escape, to explain that I was a free man, but I had no papers, no proof. Every time I ran away, they caught me and punished me. The masters passed me from one to another.

Ten years in Guatemala, three in Honduras, two in a silver mine in Taxco. His voice broke. I never stopped thinking about you. Every night, every blow, every time I felt I couldn’t endure another day, I thought of your face. You kept me alive when I should have died years ago. And now a bitter laugh escaped his throat.

Now I find you like this. You bought me, Catalina. You bought me for 17 cents. Tears streamed freely down Catalina’s face. Now I didn’t know, my God, Rafael, I didn’t know. If I had known you were alive, what would you have done? Her voice sounded harsh for the first time.

Would you have left your wealthy husband? Would you have abandoned your position, your security? No, Catalina, you did what you had to do, just as I did what I had to do to survive. Fernando died three months ago, she said abruptly. Of liver disease. He left debts. The estate is on the verge of ruin, and I have two children to feed. I’m not the same girl you knew.

And you—he stopped, unable to continue. “I am a slave,” he finished bitterly. “A man without rights, without freedom, without even his own name. I was sold and bought so many times I lost count. I was broken, Catalina. Broken in ways I never imagined possible.”

The silence that followed was thick, heavy with 16 years of suffering, shattered dreams, and cruel fates. Catalina wanted to touch him, to comfort him, but the distance between them wasn’t just physical. It was an abyss carved by years of pain and a society that now placed them on opposite sides of a brutal system. I need to think.

“This is too much,” Catalina finally said, wiping away her tears. “But for now, you’ll work here in the house. I’ll treat you as best I can without arousing suspicion. Give me time to find a solution.” Rafael nodded without saying anything more, and Catalina left the library, feeling as if the weight of the world had fallen on her shoulders.

He didn’t know if it was possible to redeem this cruel twist of fate, but he knew he had to try. The following days passed in unbearable tension. Rafael worked silently, organizing papers, repairing shelves, doing any task Catalina assigned him.

She watched him from afar, noticing how his hands, once soft and cared for, were now calloused and scarred from years of forced labor. Every scar on his body was a reminder of the countless times he had been punished, beaten, and tortured. At night, Catalina would delve into Fernando’s old law books, searching for some legal way to free him.

Spanish law regarding slavery was complex and cruel. A slave could buy his freedom, but where would Rafael get the money? A master could free him voluntarily, but doing so would inevitably raise suspicions. A widow freeing a young, strong slave right after buying him would seem suspicious, especially when everyone knew she desperately needed labor to save the estate. Macario began asking questions.

That new slave, Doña Catalina, why does he spend so much time in the house? The other slaves are murmuring. They say he receives preferential treatment because he can read, Macario, and I’m organizing my late husband’s papers. Do you have a problem with how I manage my own house? The overseer bowed in a superficial reverence, but his eyes showed distrust.

Of course not, ma’am. I’m only worried about your reputation. A young widow, a slave working in your house—people talk. That warning was like a knife in the back. Catalina knew she was right. In colonial society, appearances were everything, and the slightest rumor could ruin what little she had left.

Besides, she had to think about her children: six-year-old Francisco and four-year-old María. She couldn’t allow their future to be tainted by a scandal. A week after buying Rafael, Catalina received a visit from Don Augusto Beltrán, a neighboring landowner who had been a friend of Fernando.

He was a man in his fifties, recently widowed like her, with a reputation for being shrewd in business but fair in his dealings. “Doña Catalina,” he said as they drank coffee in the main room, “I don’t mean to be indiscreet, but I’ve heard worrying rumors about the financial situation at San Jerónimo.”

If you need help, perhaps we could come to an arrangement. What kind of arrangement, Don Augusto? Well, my ranch needs to expand, and San Jerónimo has the best land in the region. I could buy it from you for a fair price, more than enough for you and your children to live comfortably in the city. Or he paused significantly.

We could consider other arrangements. You are an attractive and intelligent woman. I am a single man. Marriage would solve all our problems. Catalina felt a chill of repulsion, but she maintained her composure. You are very kind, Don Augusto, but I need time to consider my options. I recently lost my husband.

Of course, of course, but don’t take too long. The creditors are impatient, and there are others who might be interested in this property. Some wouldn’t be as considerate as I was. When Don Augusto left, Catalina realized that time was running out faster than she had thought.

The walls closed in around him, and Rafael was trapped in the middle of it all. That night, after the children had fallen asleep, Catalina went to the barracks. It was something she had never done before, and her presence caused an immediate stir among the slaves, who stood up in alarm. Rafael was in a corner wrapped in a threadbare blanket, his ankles still shackled.

“Leave us alone,” Catalina ordered the other slaves, who quickly left, probably terrified by what this nighttime visit might mean. When they were alone, Catalina sat on the floor facing Rafael, not caring that her elegant black dress was becoming covered in dust.

By the dim light of a candle, their faces resembled masks from a Greek tragedy. “I’ve been thinking nonstop,” Catalina began, “about us, about the past, about what we could have been, and I’ve come to a painful conclusion.” Rafael looked at her with tired eyes. “Which is?” “That fate has played the cruelest of tricks on us. I found you, Rafael, after all these years.”

I found you, but I found you when we can no longer be together. Not truly. If I set you free now, you’ll raise suspicions. If you remain my slave, we’ll live in this torture every day. And if we’re discovered, we’ll both be destroyed. So what do you propose? Her voice sounded hollow. I need more time.

Time to find a way to free yourself that won’t arouse suspicion. Time to stabilize the estate and secure my children’s future. Then, perhaps, he didn’t even stop, unable to finish the sentence, because it sounded too much like a white lie. Rafael leaned forward, and for the first time since he’d bought it, his voice sounded passionate.

Do you know what it’s like to live without hope, Catalina? What it’s like to wake up every day knowing that your life doesn’t belong to you, that you’re less than an animal, that anyone can beat you, torture you, kill you without consequences. For 16 years, the only thing that kept me alive was the hope that one day, somehow, I would find you.

And now that I’ve found you, I discover that you’re just as trapped as I am, that we’re both slaves, only you have invisible chains. Her words struck Catalina like slaps. She was right. She, too, was a prisoner of societal expectations, of her gender, of her responsibilities as a mother.

The freedom he so desperately craved was something she had never truly known. “Then, ‘Help me find a way out,’ she finally said, ‘for both of us.’” Rafael extended his hand, and Catalina took it. In that simple touch, they felt all the electricity of their youthful love, now mingled with the bitterness of lost years and the complexity of their impossible situation.

They remained like that for a long time, saying nothing more, because words were insufficient to express the depth of their shared tragedy. The following weeks were a dangerous dance between appearance and reality. During the day, Rafael worked under Catalina’s orders, maintaining the facade of master and slave. But at night, when the hacienda slept, they met in the library to talk, plan, and dream of the impossible.

They didn’t touch each other beyond the occasional brush of hands, aware that crossing that line would only complicate things further. Rafael told her about his years of slavery in heartbreaking detail. The plantations where the work was so brutal that slaves died within months.

The public punishments designed to break his spirit, the daily humiliations that had reduced him to less than human in the eyes of society. He also told her of the small acts of resistance, songs whispered in the night, stories shared to keep his humanity alive, the bonds formed with other slaves who shared his suffering.

Catalina, in turn, confided in him about her marriage to Fernando. He hadn’t been a cruel man, but neither had he been affectionate. He saw her as a possession, a mother to his children, not as a partner. For 16 years she had slept in his bed, carried his children, managed his household, but she had never been truly happy. She had learned to find contentment in small things—her children, books, sunsets from the terrace—but there was always an emptiness in her heart that not even time had been able to fill. “I wonder,” Rafael said one night, “if it hadn’t been…”

“It would have been better to die in that shipwreck; at least I would have died being myself, being free.” Don’t say that. Catalina took his hand. “If you had died, we would never have met again. Perhaps this meeting is the reason you survived. Perhaps fate is giving us a second chance.”

A second chance for what? To suffer together instead of apart. She had no answer for that. The situation became complicated when Don Augusto visited her again, this time with greater insistence. “I have waited patiently, Doña Catalina, but I must press you for an answer. Your late husband’s creditors have contacted me.”

If you don’t pay soon, they’ll seize the property. Let me help you. Accept my marriage proposal. Catalina felt the walls closing in even more. Marrying Don Augusto would mean some financial stability, but she would also lose total control of the hacienda and, therefore, Rafael.

A new husband would want to reorganize everything. He would probably sell the slaves he considered unnecessary or troublesome. Rafael would be one of the first to go. Don Augusto, I appreciate your offer, but I must decline. I will find another way to settle the debts. The man’s face hardened. I hope you don’t regret this decision, Doña.

Charity has its limits, even among friends. When he left, Catalina knew she had made an enemy. Don Augusto was powerful and influential. If he decided to make her life miserable, he could easily succeed. That very afternoon, while Rafael was working in the garden pruning the overgrown bushes, Francisco, Catalina’s eldest son, approached him curiously.

The boy was six years old and possessed the innocence of his age. “What’s your name?” he asked, without the disdain others of his class showed toward slaves. “Tomás, young master.” “I don’t like that name. It sounds sad. You should have a more cheerful name.” Rafael smiled despite himself.

Slaves don’t choose their names, young master. Francisco frowned, confused. Why not? Everyone should be able to choose their own name from their bedroom window. Catalina watched the scene with a heavy heart, and her son, in his innocence, had articulated a fundamental truth that adults often forget: the basic freedom to be oneself.

She wondered what Francis would think if he knew that this slave had loved his mother before he was born, that in another universe he could have been his father. The following night, Catherine made a decision. She took out all of Ferdinand’s financial documents and studied them until dawn.

There was a small property in Puebla that Fernando had inherited from an uncle, fully paid off and debt-free. If he sold it, he could pay his most pressing creditors and buy himself time to find a permanent solution. But selling a property would take months, and he didn’t have months; he had weeks, maybe days.

Then she remembered something Fernando had mentioned to her once. She had a friend in Mexico City, a lawyer named Licenciado Sánchez, who owed her a considerable favor. Perhaps he could help her expedite the sale or find another legal solution. Three days later, Catalina left for Mexico City, leaving the hacienda in Macario’s care with strict instructions that Rafael must continue working in the main house.

The journey lasted two days, and with each passing hour, her anxiety grew. Attorney Sánchez turned out to be an older man with courteous manners and a sharp mind. He listened attentively to her situation, reviewed the documents, and finally nodded. “I can help you, Doña Catalina. I know a businessman who is looking for properties in Puebla.”

I could close the sale in two weeks if you’re willing to accept a price slightly below market value. I can also speak with Don Fernando’s creditors and negotiate more reasonable payment terms. It was like a small miracle, but enough. Catalina felt that for the first time in weeks she could breathe. Thank you, sir. You have no idea how much this means to me.

“There’s something else,” the lawyer said, studying her closely. “I’ve noticed you seem concerned about more than just finances. Is there any other legal matter I can help you with?” Catalina hesitated. It was risky to trust a stranger, but she also needed legal advice for what she planned to do with Rafael.

Carefully, without revealing too much, she inquired about the procedures for freeing a slave. Attorney Sánchez observed her with a penetrating gaze. The manumission of a slave requires proper documentation and an official record. The master simply signs a letter of freedom before a notary. However, he paused significantly. Appearances must be carefully considered.

A young widow freeing a male slave shortly after purchasing him might raise eyebrows. I understand. Catherine felt herself blush. My advice, the lawyer continued, is to wait a reasonable amount of time—six months, perhaps a year—to allow people time to adjust to having him on their property.

Then you can release him discreetly, perhaps with the excuse that he proved to be an exceptional worker. In the meantime, make sure appearances are spotless. It was the same advice your common sense had told you, but hearing it from a professional made it more real and somehow more disheartening. Another year.

Rafael would have to endure another year of slavery, and she another year of this emotional torture. When she returned to San Jerónimo four days later, she found the hacienda in turmoil. Macario greeted her with a somber expression. “Doña Catalina, we have a serious problem. The slave Tomás tried to escape the night before last. We captured him on the road to Veracruz. According to the law, we must publicly punish him to set an example for the others.” The world stopped.

Catalina felt her breath catch in her throat. Where is he now? Chained up in the stable, I’ve been waiting for his return to decide on the appropriate punishment. Catalina rushed to the stable, disregarding dignity and appearances. Rafael was chained to a post, his face and body bearing fresh bruises.

When he saw her come in, he closed his eyes, a look of defeat on his face. “Why?” was all she could manage to ask, tears streaming down her cheeks. “Because I couldn’t take it anymore.” Her voice cracked. “Being so close to you and not being able to touch you, seeing you every day, knowing we could never be together. I really thought that if I ran away, at least I’d die trying to be free.”

It’s better than living like this. You had to punish me with your absence while I struggled to find a solution. Don’t you trust me? It’s not a matter of trust, Catalina. It’s a matter of survival. My soul can’t endure this torture. I’d rather die. Macario entered the stable at that moment.

Doña Catalina, the other slaves are waiting. We need to make the punishment public now, or we’ll lose control. An escape without consequences invites more escapes. Catalina closed her eyes, facing the most terrible decision of her life. If she didn’t punish Rafael, she would lose authority over the plantation, and the other slaves would see a weakness they could exploit.

But punishing him meant participating in the same brutal system that had destroyed him for 16 years. “Ten lashes,” she finally said, her voice trembling. “And I want to do it myself.” Macario looked at her in surprise. “You, ma’am, it’s not appropriate for a lady to say that I’ll do it myself.” Rafael looked at her with an unreadable expression as they led him out to the main courtyard.

The other slaves were forced to gather to witness the punishment. Catalina took the whip with trembling hands, feeling the weight of the braided leather, as if it were the weight of all her sins. “Forgive me,” she whispered as she raised the whip. The first blow fell and Rafael barely flinched. The second. The third.

Catalina wept openly as she administered the punishment, each crack of the whip echoing like a condemnation of her own cowardice. She wasn’t hitting hard—anyone with experience could tell—but the symbolism was what mattered. When she finished, Rafael was bleeding, but not as much as he should have been.

After ten lashes, Macario frowned, but said nothing. The slaves were dispersed, and Rafael was taken back to the stable. That night, Catalina silently tended to his wounds, applying ointments to the injuries she herself had inflicted. Neither of them spoke for a long time. “I’m sorry,” Catalina finally said.

“I had no choice. I know. Rafael looked at her with tired eyes. And I feel it too. I shouldn’t have tried to escape. But Catalina, I need you to understand something. I can’t promise you I won’t try again. The idea of ​​freedom, even if it means death, is stronger than my will to continue like this.”

“Then give me three months,” she pleaded, “months to sell the property in Puebla, pay off the debts, and find a way to free you without raising suspicion. Please, Rafael, just three more months.” “And then what?” His voice sounded bitter. “Then you’ll free me, and I’ll leave. I’ll live as a free man, knowing you’re here, that my children could have been the ones sleeping in your house.”

Is that your idea of ​​freedom? I don’t have all the answers, Catalina admitted, but it’s better than death, it’s better than slavery. Rafael was silent for a long time. Finally, he nodded. Three months. But if at the end of those three months there’s no solution, I’ll leave anyway, with or without your permission.

The next two months were an exercise in patience and desperation. The sale of the property in Puebla went through, allowing Catalina to pay the most pressing creditors and gain some financial relief. But Rafael’s freedom remained a problem without a clear solution. Then, one afternoon in July, an unexpected visitor arrived at the hacienda.

He was an older man, dark-skinned and dressed in humble but dignified attire. He introduced himself to Catalina with a courteous bow. “Doña Catalina, my name is Sebastián Montes. I am the uncle of Rafael Montes, the son of my brother Miguel, who came to Mexico many years ago and never returned to Portugal.” Catalina’s heart skipped a beat.

How did you find me? I’ve spent years searching for Rafael. I received information that a slave in this region matched his description. I’ve come to offer you money to buy his freedom, if he truly is my nephew. It was as if heaven had finally answered her prayers. With trembling hands, Catalina summoned Rafael.

When the old man saw him, his eyes filled with tears. “Rafael, my brother’s son, we thought you were dead so many years ago.” The reunion was emotional. Sebastián explained that the family in Portugal had prospered in recent years with the spice trade. When they learned of Rafael’s shipwreck, they feared the worst, but they never stopped hoping for news.

Finally, a surviving former shipmate mentioned seeing someone resembling Rafael being sold into slavery years before. Sebastian had spent a fortune on private investigators following leads throughout the region. “I have enough money to buy your freedom,” the old man said, “and to take you back to Portugal, where you can claim your family inheritance. It was the perfect solution.”

Rafael could be free without arousing Catalina’s suspicions. He could rebuild his life, regain the dignity that had been stolen from him. But when Catalina saw the expression on Rafael’s face, she knew it wasn’t that simple. “I need to think,” Rafael finally said. That night they met for the last time in the library.

The full moon streamed through the window, bathing them in silvery light. “You could be free,” Catalina said. “You could have a real life far from here, far from all this suffering, but far from you.” Rafael, “No, let me speak.” He moved closer to her, violating all the unwritten rules that had bound them. “For 16 years I have loved you in silence.”

Every scar on my body is a reminder of that love. Every night I wanted to give up, I thought of your face and found the strength to go on. And now that I’ve found you, I’m supposed to leave, just leave you here and pretend you never existed. I see no other choice. Catalina was crying too.

If you stay, you will always be either my slave or a freedman under my roof. People will talk, they will judge us. My children will suffer the consequences. But if you leave, you can be truly free. And you will be free. I never have been, but at least I will know that you are. Rafael took her hands and, for the first time since they had been reunited, kissed her.

It was a kiss filled with 16 years of longing, pain, and love that never died despite the circumstances. When they parted, they both knew it was goodbye. “I will accept my uncle’s offer,” Rafael finally said. “I will go to Portugal, but first I need you to promise me something, anything. When your children grow up, tell them about me, not as your slave, but as the man you loved before their father. I want them to know that their mother was capable of true love.”

Even if circumstances didn’t allow it, I promise. The next day the legal transaction was completed. Sebastian paid the market price for Rafael’s freedom, plus a generous additional amount as thanks to Catalina for treating him well.

The documents were signed before a notary, and Rafael Montes officially ceased to be a slave when the carriage that would take him to Veracruz, and from there to a ship bound for Portugal, was ready to depart. The entire hacienda came out to see him off. The other slaves looked at him with a mixture of envy and hope, seeing him as proof that freedom was possible.

Catherine kept her distance, maintaining appearances until the very end. But when Raphael looked at her one last time before getting into the carriage, his eyes said everything his lips could not. The carriage drove off down the dusty road, and Catherine stood watching it until it disappeared into the distance.

She felt a part of her soul go with him, but she also felt a strange peace. Rafael was free. That would have to be enough. That night, alone in her room, Catalina opened the locket with the portrait of the young Rafael. She gazed at it for a long time, then closed it and put it away in the deepest drawer of her desk. It was time to let go of the past and focus on the present.

But before going to bed, she wrote a letter she planned to give her children when they were older. In it, she told the truth about Rafael, about the love they shared, and about how sometimes the deepest love is the one that requires letting go. Three years later, Catalina received a letter from Portugal. Rafael had married a woman from a good family, taken over the family business, and was the father of a child.

He wrote that he had finally found peace, though a part of his heart would always remain in Mexico, on a hacienda where he had once been bought for 17 cents by the only woman he had ever truly loved. Catalina kept the letter next to the medallion. She had kept her promise to give him freedom, and he had kept his promise to survive and thrive.

It was not the ending they would have chosen, but it was the ending that fate had given them.