But I noticed her trembling hands.
Sometimes I came home and found her washing dishes while Mateo cried nearby. Other times she cleaned the house while my mother sat comfortably watching television at full volume.
Whenever I questioned it, my mother smiled calmly.
“She insists on doing things herself, Diego. Says it helps her recover.”
And like a fool… I believed her.
That Tuesday, something felt wrong from the moment I arrived at work. During a meeting, an unbearable feeling settled in my chest. Mariana hadn’t texted. No missed calls. Nothing unusual.
Still, I couldn’t ignore the feeling.
So I left early and drove home.
Before I even reached the door, I heard Mateo crying.
Not normal crying.
Desperate crying.
The kind that makes your stomach twist instantly.
I rushed inside.
The smell of warm food filled the house—rice, meat, fresh tortillas.
My mother sat comfortably at the dining table eating peacefully, as if nothing in the world was wrong.
And Mariana…
Mariana was collapsed in the armchair.
Her body hung to one side, one arm dangling lifelessly. Her lips had almost no color left. Mateo screamed beside her in his bassinet, red-faced and exhausted.
I ran toward her.
“Mariana! Mariana, wake up!”
My mother didn’t even stand.
She calmly kept eating before saying coldly,
“Oh please, Diego. Stop exaggerating. She just didn’t want to finish washing the pot.”
Something inside me shattered.
The woman who raised me sat there eating food my exhausted wife had prepared… while Mariana literally collapsed beside her.
I picked Mariana up in my arms, grabbed Mateo, and walked straight out.
Behind me, my mother shouted:
“This is my son’s house! I’m the one in charge here!”
At that moment, I still had no idea how much worse things truly were.
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