One Hundred Years of Solitude

time and the letters from her
children. In the detailed
messages that she sent them
every two weeks there was
not a single line of truth. She
hid her troubles from them.
She hid from them the
sadness of a house which, in
spite of the light on the
begonias, in spite of the
heaviness at two in the
afternoon, in spite of the
frequent waves of festivals
that came in from the street