My boyfriend and I don't have any hobbies in common. We don't have weekends for going hiking or mountain climbing, nor Wednesdays for salsa or bachata, nor evenings for yoga or mornings for cycling and specialty coffee. We don't have anything that binds us to each other like a subscription, an extracurricular activity that you've already paid for until next year. You can unsubscribe whenever you want. We are fond of each other, without intermediaries. A clean thing, which leaves no room for error, a blank voucher with random options: the last session of the day to go see the Sorogoyen film, a paddle surf excursion in Colònia de Sant Pere, an exhibition at the Toni Catany, a walk through Estanyol or a dinner at the Vietnamese restaurant in Palmanova.

The only daughter is having her birthday: one, specifically. And, with only a few days difference, my mother too. She's turning 55. I like that I fell into this coincidence, because it reminds me more than ever that without a unique mother there would have been no only daughter. I started writing more inwardly and less outwardly when I discovered that the world could be explained through the stories we keep within ourselves. And the story with my mother is one of them. The first one, I'd say. And perhaps, one day, it will also be the last. Because it's a story that never ends.