La Hacienda

When the layoffs came, they arrived like a sickness spreading through the country. Entire departments gone overnight, entire futures rewritten in an email that began with, ‘We regret to inform you.’

I was one of those who had been regrettably informed.

I had built my life around that job, the title beneath my name, the proof that I’d made something of myself. That all the sacrifices my family had made by leaving Mexico were worth it.

Then, in one morning, it was gone.

My abuela came to stay with me when she found out, saying I needed company, that years of work had made me miss too much, and that I should rest. I told her I would, but instead I thrust myself into a purgatory of endless rejection emails and awkward interviews.

Sleep wasn’t coming easily, either. Some nights I’d wake standing at the window, unsure how long I’d been there. The doctor called it sleepwalking, but it felt like something pulling me through the dark, watching me.

I didn’t tell my family about that, though; I didn’t want to give them another reason to worry or for more of them to move in to watch me.

That was when Sofía called.

“You should come to Mexico with me,” she said. “You always talked about reconnecting with your roots during college. Now you actually can.”

I hesitated, looking for an excuse to say no, to convince myself I should say no. I told her that my family was from another part of Mexico, farther south. I had no connection where Sofía was going, but she was ready to counter; she told me that her family home was a good place to start. That roots stretched deep and far once we followed them.

How could I say no after that?

I told my grandmother of my plans, and she was thrilled to know I’d be returning to the place she hadn’t been back to since leaving, a place she couldn’t go back to, not yet. Not when coming back was a risk too great.

“We’ll be staying at Sofía’s family home. I think she mentioned it was hacienda or something.” I told her as I packed.

Her smile wavered, and her voice got low, “Una hacienda? You shouldn’t sleep in those old houses, mija. They hold too many secrets and memories.”

I told her I wasn’t superstitious like her and that it was just a house.

“We have some family in that area, you can stay with them instead.” She pulled a little black book from her leather purse and flipped through the faded pages.

“I already told her I would be staying with them. Plus, I thought you said we weren’t from that part of Mexico.”

“Not my side of the family, but your abuelo had some family that lived there when he was young.”

“That was so long ago, abuela. What are the chances they’re still there?”

“Mucha gente stays in the same place, mija. For every one of us that is here, there are still many who stayed behind, waiting to see us again one day.”

The look in her eyes grew distant, and I knew she had traveled back to a place, to a people, that only existed in memory now.

“Abuelita, I’ll be fine. Changing plans now would be rude.”

She hesitated but relented, pressing into my hands a small wooden cross and a black stone that looked like glass.

“Keep this with you,” she said. “And if you hear your name at night, don’t answer, don’t look back.”

Something in her face, something like fear, made me say I would.

Sofía met me at the Guanajuato airport with a grin that reached all the way back to our college years. “You made it,” she said, squeezing my hands. “You’re going to feel brand new here.”

“I can’t wait,” I beamed.

As we drove out of the city, my chest began to unclench for the first time in months. The air felt lighter here, warm but open, and I let myself believe that maybe I could start over. I watched the mountains rise in the distance, a soft haze of blue and ash, and pictured San Miguel de Allende—its cobblestone streets and golden domes, its terraces tangled in bougainvillea. I imagined walking through the markets, buying woven bags and pottery, sipping café de olla while pretending this trip was about rediscovering my roots, not just a vacation.

“Oye, I thought you said you lived in San Miguel,” I said, eyeing the mounted GPS on the dashboard.

“I do, but we’re going to be staying with my abuela first. Where the roots haven’t been plucked out yet.” Sofia laughed as she rolled down the window, and her dark hair danced in the wind.

Each kilometer we drove deeper into the desert stripped away part of the world I knew and showed me one that I was supposed to know. We passed small towns with crumbling churches, shrines marked by sun-bleached ribbons, and the ghosts of advertisements painted on walls. I read them aloud, catching only fragments of what was once written. My Spanish, smooth in childhood summers, returned hesitantly, like a language that didn’t trust me anymore.

Sofía turned onto a rough dirt path, and the car shuddered. “We’re almost there.”

We drove for another hour before the hacienda came into view at the end of the road. It looked like a sentinel of the sierra.

Up close, though, it looked like something that had fallen into eternal slumber. The arches, once curved toward the sky, were caved in. Its walls were crumbling, and the once-grand facade was covered in dust. Light poured in from all the cracks and holes, but only darkness rested within.

“We stay in the small house now,” Sofía said, catching my face. “The hacienda’s… retired.”

Retired was a kind way of putting it. The hacienda was rotting in the Mexican sun.

I caught my reflection in one of the broken windows, and for the briefest second, I thought I was looking at my mother, or someone who resembled her. I reached out to touch it, and a gust of wind, as if from within the house, blew and pushed me back. It threw sand in my eyes, blinding me as it whipped my face.

“It’s strange,” I said while spitting dirt out of my mouth, “It feels like I’ve seen her before.”

“Maybe you have. Maybe not in this life.”

I turned back toward the broken shard of glass, but it was my own reflection staring back at me.

“Nayeli,” my name whispered on the wind.

“Nayeli, this way.” It was Sofia. I watched her walk away, her steps light and soft on the gravel. She belonged here, and the bright sun and hot air welcomed her, kissed her, while it lashed against my skin.

The smaller house was bright white and low-roofed, surrounded by aloe and nopales. Her abuela waited in the doorway, wrapped in a shawl, her white hair in a braid that was draped over her right shoulder. She embraced both of us and signed the cross over us as we stepped into the small house.

“This is my Abuela, Xóchitl.”

“Bienvenida,” she said, voice soft as terciopelo. “The house has been too quiet. It will like your company.”

They gave me a short tour of the small house. There was a kitchen that opened to a small dining room that was also the living room. On the other side of the house was a short, narrow hallway with two doors on each side. There was an altar in front of the far wall. It held several lit candles, illuminating the faces of the saints painted on it. Between each candle were prayer cards with angels and La Virgen de Guadalupe, and around them were totems —carved figures in the same stone my abuela had given me. I had never seen them before, but they felt familiar.

“They’re the old and new gods of this place.”

“Does your abuela pray to both of them?”

“You only pray to one. The others require more than prayer for worship.” Sofía said as she opened the door to the right of the table.

“We will be sleeping in here for the next two nights. It’s not much, but it is comfortable.”

The room had two twin beds pushed against separate walls, with enough space in between to walk through. Sofía took the bed nearest the door, and I had the bed next to the window with a view of the hacienda.

“Why don’t you restore it?” The question came out before I had even thought it, as if willed by something other than my own mind.

“What would be the point?” Sofía’s question was rhetorical; I heard it in her tone, but something compelled me to push.

“To preserve and honor its history.”

Her tone was dark, cold. “Its current condition is honoring its memoria.”

What memory deserved such treatment, I wondered, but didn’t get to ask as we heard the sound of dirt crunching under tires and reached the front door as a thin, short woman who looked like a younger Abuela Xóchitl got out of the driver’s seat.

“Tía Rosario,” Sofía exclaimed as she ran into the woman’s arms.

“Mama, I brought you the herbs you wanted.” Rosario handed her a woven satchel that had been hanging off her right shoulder. The older woman took it from her and turned back into the house. The younger woman didn’t seem to mind the cold welcome; she was engrossed in her conversation with Sofía. Their smiles spread beyond their face, and laughter rang in each syllable they spoke.

My attention was on the hacienda behind them, imagining the dresses, the uniforms, the love stories written in its halls.

“It must have been so beautiful once. Alive with people laughing, loving one another, and happy.” The words tumbled out again before I even realized I was talking.

Sofía and her tía scowled.

“Maybe, but it is showing its true face now,” Rosario said, echoing Sofía.

I wanted to ask more, to know more about it, but something deep and older than my own blood told me not to question.

“Sofía tells me it’s your first time in this part of Mexico.” Rosario gently placed her hand on my shoulder and turned me back toward the small house. “Where is your family from?”

“They’re from Guerrero,” I answered politely, “Near Acapulco.”

“There are so many places near Acapulco, where exactly?” Rosario probed, and I squirmed out of her touch.

“I’m not sure exactly. I’ve never been.”

Her eyes went wide, and her mouth hung open. It was a look I was too familiar with, the same one my relatives gave me at family reunions.

“Now you see why I had to bring her down here, Tía.” Sofía chuckled as she nudged her aunt in the ribs.

“Si, I understand,” Rosario’s expression softened again, but her eyes still carried her surprise. “Are you sure you don’t have family in these parts? You look like you could be related to los Romeros.” She added as she peered at my face.

“I don’t think so,” I answered hesitantly, then remembered my abuela’s words. “But maybe, my abuelo had family here long ago, before he left Mexico.”

“So you do have a connection to this place,” Rosario added, as she looked out toward the big house, “Even though yours aren’t as deep, you belong to this place too. That is why the hacienda calls your attention, then.”

“ I suppose so. It’s not at all how I had imagined. It’s a pity to see it in ruins.”

“You have no idea how many it has ruined.” I heard Sofía mumble under her breath.

“Basta,” Rosario said firmly, the playfulness toward her niece gone. “Beauty is not goodness, mija.” She told me, her look kinder, “Now, let us go help Mama with dinner.”

Dinner was simple but involved. We used the herbs Rosario had brought, and they cut some of the nopales that grew outside, their scent sharp and green. Xóchitl handed me a knife and a thick paddle of cactus.

“Careful,” Rosario said, scraping the thorns away with practiced ease. “You don’t cut it — you coax it.”

I tried to copy her, clumsy at first, the blade slipping against the slick skin. She only laughed. “It’ll come to you, you already carry it in your blood.”

We cooked the pieces with tomatoes, onion, and eggs. The scent that filled the kitchen was rich. It was something between smoke and sunlight.

At the table, the air was full of laughter. Rosario shared chisme from town, her words so vivid I could see it all — the plaza lights, the gossiping neighbors, the drama unfolding like one of my abuela’s telenovelas.

I laughed when they laughed, gasped when they did, but still felt apart like a viewer pressed against the glass.

Rosario kissed each one of us on the cheek and left after finishing with the dishes.

“She doesn’t like to be here after dark,” Sofía said.

Sofía and I lay in our beds beneath the lazy spin of the ceiling fan. “You’ll sleep better here,” she said, eyes half closed. “In the desert, you only dream the truth.”

My eyelids grew heavy, and I felt myself sinking until the mattress seemed to vanish beneath me.

Then, a sound. A loud blast of brass, sharp enough to split the dark.

My eyes flew open.

For a moment, I couldn’t see. The light was too bright, but then the shapes around me began to take form. I was standing barefoot in a courtyard, the air sweet and green. Vines climbed the walls, flowering into color. Emerald tiles spread across the floor, warm under my feet, and in the center rose a great fountain, the water sparkling like crystal.

From a balcony above, I heard laughter and voices speaking like a song.

I climbed the steps and followed the sound.

Inside, the air was thick with music, brass and strings, and something else, something older. The words they sang were muddled, but the rhythm took hold of my body, and I swayed, spinning across an ornate rug that glowed like gold.

I danced through the rooms, moving with the music, passing faces that blurred and shimmered when I tried to look too closely. All dressed in gowns or suits. Candlelight flickered over treasures from far-off places—tapestries, silver mirrors, ivory fans. The walls pulsed with color and laughter. Every step forward felt like stepping deeper into a heartbeat.

In the hallway, between rooms, I caught glimpses of myself reflected in the gilded mirrors. Though the image wavered and distorted, I saw my dark hair loose and long, skin sun-kissed to a deep bronze, but the eyes looking back at me weren’t mine. They bore a sadness that I had never experienced. A man stepped behind me, his face blurred—the air around my throat tightened

Somewhere in the distance, a single note stretched too long. The air cooled, the light dimmed, and the laughter was gone. In its place came quieter voices—pleading, breaking, speaking words I couldn’t make out, but whose meaning I felt in my chest.

They were apologies, cries, promises made in desperation. The sound of a whip cutting through the air. A sob caught mid-breath as palm met flesh. The sharp, wet crack of bone.

The air pressed against me, thick with sorrow and smoke. The voices rushed at me all at once, a wave of anguish that struck and then fell away, leaving only silence.

When I lifted my head, the courtyard was gone. The fountain was dry and broken. The emerald tiles were dull as ash. The arches above me gaped like broken ribs. And in my hand I held the black stone my abuela had given me.

I crossed the courtyard and stepped into the open desert between houses.

The air behind me stirred.

Then I heard it.

“Nayeli.”

A whisper, close enough to brush my ear.

A coldness spread through me, sharp and sudden, and I ran. The voice followed and repeated my name over and over. It was soft and coaxing at first, but as I got closer to the house, the voice grew harsher.

By the time I reached the door, I was sobbing. I pulled at the handle, but it didn’t move. I banged on it, calling for Sofía, my palms stinging, my breath tearing from my throat. Behind me, the air pressed closer. I felt the weight of something standing right at my back, felt it crawl across my neck and tighten.

The door creaked open.

Abuela Xóchitl stood behind the screen, her shawl wrapped tightly around her shoulders, her gaze stern. She wasn’t looking at me but past me, toward what lingered in the dark.

“It’s too late to be out,” she said. Her voice was low, steady. Then her eyes softened as she turned them to me, “Come in, mi niña.”

I stumbled through the threshold.

“Nayeli.”

I didn’t look back.

“Nayeli.”

Hands gripped my wrist and pulled me.

“Nayeli, what are you doing up so late?”

I turned and saw Sofía standing next to me by the kitchen window, hair tangled, eyes heavy.

My throat ached when I swallowed, and the soles of my feet hurt.

“Did you have a nightmare?”

I hesitated. “I don’t remember.”

Sofía took my hand in hers, and I heard the black stone bounce across the floor as she led me back through the dark house to our shared room. I heard the wind blow through the hacienda’s empty halls, carrying a sound, a song, a name, but I didn’t turn back.