Pregnant and alone, she bought an abandoned orange grove… and what she found under the tree chang…

Chapter 4

The walk to Santa Oliva was longer than she had imagined.

The sun beat down on the red-earth paths. Dust clung to the hem of her dress. Her swollen feet forced her to stop again and again, and each time she paused she set a hand on her belly, breathed slowly, and told herself one more stretch was all that was required. By the time she passed the old sign at the town’s edge, her throat was dry and there was a dull ache in the small of her back — but she kept going.

Santa Oliva greeted her with white houses, green shutters, and curious eyes following the unknown woman heavy with child.

She asked where the Dead Grove was. The first woman she asked frowned. “Dead Grove. Whatever would you want with it?”

“I’d like to see it.”

“Then look at it from a distance, girl. Up close it’s just sadder.”

A man lounging in the shade of a wall laughed. “There’s nothing left worth seeing there.”

Marisol didn’t argue. She thanked them and followed the road they pointed to. Past the town, the air turned drier. Yellow fields, scorched by the sun, ran along both sides of the track. After a bend heading into the low hills, she saw it — a leaning wooden gate behind a line of scrub.

The Dead Grove stood still.

The gate looked tired, years old, worn by no one’s touch. A stretch of fence had fallen in. Dry grass covered the entry path. Behind it, rows of old orange trees stood silent, branches grey, some snapped, others raised toward the sky like withered arms. The moss-hooded well sat beside the path. The storehouse roof had holes in it. The ditches had almost vanished under earth and brush. No birds sang. No scent of flowers rode the air. Nothing here promised an easy start.

The baby turned inside her. Marisol laid a hand over the movement and smiled, very gently.

“I know,” she whispered. “It’s not pretty.”

Wind moved through the dead branches and dropped an old leaf. Marisol studied the grove for a long, long time. She felt no joy. She saw no miracle. But she felt something so familiar it hurt: this place had been abandoned at the exact moment it most needed care. They called it dead only because nobody remained with patience enough to look at its roots.

And that made her think of herself.

She bent, with difficulty, and scooped a handful of red earth. Dry. Hot. Nearly without moisture. But closed in her fist, it still had weight. It did not crumble like ash. Marisol looked at that earth, then at the silent rows of trees.

“I don’t know if I have the strength to save this place,” she said, very low. “But if I buy it, I won’t abandon it the way other people abandoned it.”

Nobody answered. Only the wind crossed the grove. And from her belly, her daughter gave a small kick. Marisol lowered her head, exhausted but smiling.

“Understood. You want to try for it too, don’t you?”

That afternoon she walked into the notary’s office in Santa Oliva. The room smelled of old paper, ink, and polished wood. Don Aurelio Mendieta studied the papers for a long while. He didn’t look at her with contempt, but his eyes carried obvious worry over the pregnant woman seated in front of him.

“Señora Vega,” he said slowly, “I need to be sure you understand the condition of this property.”

“I do. The well needs repair. The ditches are nearly unusable. The storehouse can’t be called a proper dwelling. The trees have gone years without care. The fence is ruined as well.”

Marisol looked down at her hands. “I saw it.”

Don Aurelio hesitated. “And you are close to giving birth.”

“I’m not offended. I know it will be hard.”

She paused. When she raised her eyes, they were faintly red, but her voice was calm.

“But where I am now, I also have nothing certain.”

In the corner of the office sat Renato Almada, back against his chair. Neatly dressed. Clean hands. The face of a man who had just unloaded something useless. Marisol felt his gaze but answered with no anger — only both hands folded on her belly, reminding herself to stay calm for her daughter.

Renato spoke with a shallow courtesy. “Don Aurelio only wants to make sure you won’t say afterward that you were tricked. That place is hardly a bargain.”

“I don’t think it’s a bargain.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Then what do you think it is?”

Marisol looked at the contract. “The only thing I can still try.”

The room went quiet. Don Aurelio sighed and set the pen before her.

“The price is low because the land no longer produces. If you sign, every cost and risk becomes yours.”

Marisol looked at the pen. She thought of the rented room, the debt she’d just cleared, the few coins in the handkerchief, Mateo and the silent door he’d left open behind him. Then she thought of the red earth in her fist, the small kick at the grove’s gate.

“The lady come alone?” Renato asked, almost lazily.

“I have my daughter,” Marisol said.

Don Aurelio’s voice was gentle. “I mean an adult. Someone who could help you.”

She smoothed her hand over her belly.

“Then, for now, I’ll have to be adult enough for the two of us.”

Renato stopped pretending to smile. The notary sat very still. “Señora Vega, that place has almost nothing in it.”

Marisol took the pen. Her hand trembled — not from doubt, but because she knew she was setting her entire life on a single decision.

“Then it’s all right,” she said, low and clear. “If almost nothing is left, it also means nobody there has already stolen my future.”

And she signed.

Her name appeared above the paper in a line of ink that wasn’t perfectly steady. Small, that signature. But for the first time in many days, she felt her life was not entirely in the hands of others.

Renato signed after her, fast and indifferent, and stood, reaching for his hat.

“I hope you have a great deal of patience, Señora Vega.”

Marisol folded the contract into her cloth bag. “I’m going to need it.”

He watched her a moment, as if looking for some sign of fear. Maybe he found it. But fear did not make her get up and run. So he only shrugged and walked out.

At the door, Don Aurelio said, “I wish you luck. Truly.”

Marisol paused. She was tired, but her expression was calmer.

“Thank you. But if you can — wish me water, this time.”

The notary smiled just a little, worry still living in his eyes.

That evening Marisol went back to the rented room, looked around it one last time, and began to pack. There wasn’t much: a few dresses, some handkerchiefs, the old blanket, the little clothes she had sewn for her baby, the tin box, the pot, two plates, scraps of cloth, and the sewing machine that had kept her company through so many long nights. Folding each thing, she understood she wasn’t leaving a home — she was leaving the place where she had waited far too long.

The landlord appeared in the doorway as she carried out her first bundle. “You’re really going.”

“Yes.”

He looked at the bags, then at her belly. His voice came out less dry than usual. “Where, then?”

Marisol hugged the bundle to her chest. The answer tightened her throat, but inside that knot there was also a little light.

“Somewhere where, if the roof falls in — at least it’ll be my roof.”

The neighbor across the corridor opened her door again. This time she said nothing. Marisol saw her take in the sewing machine, the belly, the bags — maybe expecting humiliation, maybe expecting tears. Instead Marisol walked slowly down the corridor, chin up, though every step weighed on her.

In the street, late sun hit her face. A small cart waited to carry her things to Santa Oliva. The driver asked if that was everything.

Marisol looked at the sewing machine, the bags, the tin box.

“That’s everything a life holds,” she said, “when you have to start over.”

The driver had no answer. He only arranged the load.

Before climbing up, Marisol turned toward the building’s façade — nights of waiting, broken promises, fear, and the echo of a door that never slammed. She felt no nostalgia. She felt something cleaner. Distance.

She touched her belly. “Come on, little one,” she whispered. “We’ve got a disaster with trees waiting for us.”

The cart began to move along the dusty road. Behind her lay the old town, its narrow walls, its pitying glances, its debts. Ahead, beyond Santa Oliva, waited a leaning gate, a moss-covered well, dry trees, and earth that nobody wanted. Marisol didn’t know if she had done something mad.

But for the first time since Mateo left, the madness was hers.