Las pequeñas mudanzas

I admire women from the Spanish Golden Age. I admire their bravery; I’ve always wanted to tell off all the idiots who have stained my honour. The biggest idiot of them all was my father. He left before I was born, and I feel the ground has shifted under my feet. My father left my mother without honour, which is the source of all our problems. Uncertainty, fear, shame and pain. In 1973, people still spoke of a woman’s honour. If my mother had been Tirso de Molina’s Doña Juana, would she have dressed up as a man? I want to tell the story of a woman who grew up without a father. I want to talk about the withdrawal of affection that turns into abandonment and leads to the first abandonment: the one that strikes at the core of the family and affects us forever. I want to talk about the abandonment in my family. About familial withdrawal. I want to talk about living and loving and being afraid to live. About hate and revenge. I want to talk about breakups. I want to talk about farewells and the door that opens after them.