No one reprimanded me.
Then I went into a bakery and bought a scoop of vanilla ice cream.
Not for him.
For me.
I bit her as we walked slowly through the square, watching couples, vendors, balloons, and children chasing soap bubbles.
I thought about the road to Cuernavaca, the accident, the woman I was before and after.
For years, everyone told me about Esteban’s tragedy.
Nobody asked me about mine.
Mine didn’t show up on the x-rays.
He didn’t need a wheelchair.
But it also immobilized me.
The legal process lasted for months.
The illegitimate power was overthrown.
My share in the house and assets acquired during the marriage was recognized.
The hidden accounts have come to light.
Deposits are also for Tomás.
Esteban had to pay for professional care, medication, and debts he had hidden, while I sold clothes to stock the pantry.
I didn’t keep everything.
It was never about that.
I kept what was mine.
After five years of feeling like I was on loan, this felt like a blessing.
Thomas appeared one last time.
He arrived without shouting.
No hat.
Without arrogance.
My father told me he can’t help me anymore.
-I know.
He also told me it was your fault.
-Of course.
He stood still at the entrance.
I found the audio recordings.
I looked at him.
Which one?
—The ones he sent to his friends. Talking about you. About me. About everyone.
His face was pale.
He used me too.
I didn’t say “I told you so”.
It wouldn’t have done him any good.
-Sorry.
Tomás lowered his gaze.
—I was a fool to you.
-Yes.
-Sorry.
The news arrived late, but it arrived.
“I don’t know what to make of this apology,” I replied. “But I don’t wish you any harm.”
He nodded.
Can I bring you clothes downtown?
Yes. Coordinate with management. Not with me.
He understood.
That was the closest we came to peace.
A year later, my living room no longer looked like a hospital room.
I placed a yellow armchair there.
I bought plants.
I put up light-colored curtains.
I started using perfume again.
I started wearing tight dresses again, not to please anyone, but to remind myself that my body wasn’t just an instrument to be cared for.
I also started a course to become a nursing assistant.
I cried in the bathroom during the first class.
I thought I would hate everything related to taking care of someone.
But no.
What she detested was displays of affection without respect.
Caring tirelessly.
Taking care of someone who mocked my hands while I depended on them.
The teacher talked about caregiver breakdown, and I felt like she was reading my story aloud.
I didn’t raise my hand.
Not yet.
But I wrote in my notebook:
“I wasn’t a nurse for free. I was an exploited woman who learned late in life to charge for her freedom.”
Some time later, I received a letter from Esteban.
He sent the message from the center.
I didn’t open it as soon as it arrived.
I left it on the table for three days.
When I finally read it, it said:
Brenda:
Everyone here is paid to take care of me. No one can guess. No one runs away if I scream. No one hates me, but no one obeys me out of love.
I think that’s what I misunderstood about you.
I don’t know how to apologize without wanting something in return. I’m learning.
Esteban.
I folded.
I didn’t cry.
I put it in a box, not out of affection, but as proof that even the most complacent monsters can see themselves in the mirror when their services are switched off.
I didn’t go back to him.
It wasn’t necessary for my story to evoke pity.
Compassion, too, can have a closed door.
