One Sunday I went to La Esperanza to buy seafood.
I bought two.
One vanilla one.
One of chocolate.
I sat down on a bench outside and placed them on my lap.
For years I bought their favorites.
That day I tried the chocolate one.
I liked it better.
Much more.
I laughed alone, with sugar on my fingers and the sun on my face.
For five years, I believed that love meant staying even if it destroyed me.
Later, I understood that loving also meant calling a nurse, hiring a lawyer, opening the windows, removing a hospital bed from the room and saying:
“I’m not going to abandon a sick person. I’m going to abandon the abuse.”
Esteban thought he would have me for food and shelter.
Tomás thought I was a woman waiting to be evicted.
His friends thought I was a free nurse.
And perhaps for a time I was.
But even a woman used as a decorative object learns to move when she discovers she still has legs.
I didn’t scream that day.
I didn’t break any plates.
I didn’t throw the grenades at him.
I started taking away everything she should never have had:
my money,
my tireless work,
my silence,
my fear,
my life.
And when I finished, all that remained in his hands was what it had always been:
your body,
your son,
your decisions,
…and the exact solitude he built by laughing at the woman who embraced him.
to put in Esteban’s mouth.
