For five years, I cleaned his body, changed his catheters, and fed him.
For five years, I slept with one eye open, in case he was choking, in case something hurt him, in case he needed me to turn him over in bed at three in the morning.
Five years smelling of alcohol, ointment, chlorine, and chicken broth.
Five years believing that it was love.
Until I heard it.
My name is Brenda.
Esteban was twenty-nine years old when he became paralyzed after an accident on the road to Cuernavaca.
We were newlyweds.
I still wore tight dresses, expensive perfumes, and had silly dreams.
After the accident, my life was reduced to a hospital bed in the ward.
I learned how to carry it.
Take a shower.
To change their diapers.
I’m going to have a conflict with the IMSS (Mexican Social Security Institute).
She smiled when he threw the plate away because “the soup was cold”.
Everyone told me:
—You’re a great wife, Brenda.
And I believed it.
Because when a woman loves, she sometimes confuses sacrifice with condemnation.
That morning I went to La Esperanza to buy seafood.
Vanilla.
Her favorites.
I got up at five, stood in line, bought them while they were still warm, and went to the rehabilitation center.
I wanted to surprise him.
How ridiculous I was.
When I arrived, I saw him in the courtyard, sitting in his wheelchair, talking to a man I didn’t know.
I stopped behind a column to fix my hair.
Then I heard her laugh.
A pure laugh.
Strong.
Cruel.
“No, my friend, I’ve already won,” Esteban said. “Brenda is a nurse, a housekeeper, a cook, and a driver… all for free.”
I felt the bag of bread slip from my hands.
The other man laughed.
Esteban continued:
She’s so traumatized by this whole “in sickness and in health” thing that she’ll never leave. I have her completely under my control.
I was breathless.
“And the inheritance?”, the man asked.
Esteban burst into laughter again.
—Everything for my son, obviously. For Tomás. He’s my blood. Brenda is taking care of the house until I die.
My heart broke.
Thomas.
Your son from another marriage.
The same person who used to come into my house without saying hello.
The same person who would leave dirty dishes and call me “ma’am” as if I were an employee.
The same person Esteban asked me to be patient with.
—He was upset to see me like that, Brenda.
Lie.
For both of them, it was convenient to see me crouching down.
Esteban spoke again:
Besides, while she’s cleaning my butt, I don’t spend a penny. Do you know how much a full-time nurse earns?
The man replied:
—A fortune.
Well, I have this for food and shelter.
Something inside me died there.
I didn’t cry.
I didn’t go in there to shout.
I didn’t throw the grenades in his face.
I simply turned around and left the hospital with trembling legs.
In the parking lot, I sat down inside the car.
I gripped the steering wheel so hard that my fingers hurt.
And I whispered:
-He finished.
I didn’t stay with him that night.
I sent the ambulance.
When he got home, he glared angrily at me from the stretcher.
—Where were you? I was waiting for you.
-Busy.
He frowned.
Did you bring my bread?
I looked at him.
For the first time in five years, I actually observed him.
I never saw the sick man again.
I saw the monster at ease.
-I forgot.
His expression changed.
—How could you forget?
I didn’t answer.
I adjusted the pillow for him.
I covered her legs.
I gave him the pills.
I did everything the same way.
But inside, she was no longer the same.
I started the next day.
First, I checked the documents.
Invoices.
Accounts.
Scriptures.
Receipts.
Contracts.
Everything he thought I didn’t understand was because “I was only good for taking care of him.”
I found a few things.
Many.
A life insurance policy.
A hidden account.
A will in which my name was not included, not even by mistake.
And a folder with the name Tomás written on it.
Inside there were storage facilities.
Monthly.
Big.
While I was counting pesos to buy gasoline, Esteban was sending money to his son so he could buy motorcycles, sneakers, and take trips to Cancun.
I laughed.
A dry laugh.
Not because of the pain.
Disgusting.
That night, while I was serving him dinner, Esteban asked me:
Why are you so quiet?
I wiped the corner of his mouth with a napkin.
-I am tired.
—Well, rest when I go to sleep.
He said that without shame.
As a standard.
As the owner.
I smiled.
Yes, Esteban.
He didn’t notice anything.
Men like him never realize when a woman stops loving them.
They only realize it when he stops obeying.
For two weeks, I remained the same.
I made the soup for her.
I changed the sheets.
I took him to therapy.
I smiled at the nurse.
And at night, while he slept, I continued making copies.
Audio files.
Account statements.
Messages.
I recorded Thomas telling me:
—When my father dies, you will leave this house.
I recorded Esteban’s reply:
—Leave her alone. As long as she’s useful to me, she can stay.
I hired a lawyer.
A good option.
Those who not only caress your hand, but open your eyes.
When I put everything on the table, she simply said:
Brenda, your husband doesn’t need a nurse. He needs a legal process.
That Friday, I went home early.
Esteban was in the living room, talking on the phone with Tomás.
He didn’t hear me come in.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “As soon as I leave, I’ll take care of it. The house is yours.”
I stayed behind him.
And for the first time in five years, I didn’t feel sadness.
I felt peace.
I turned off the blender that was making noise in the kitchen.
Esteban turned around.
Her smile disappeared.
How long have you been there?
PART 2
—As long as it’s useful to me.
Esteban remained motionless.
The phone was still pressed against his ear. On the other end of the line, Tomás was asking:
—Dad? What happened?
I walked to the table, placed my bag on it, and looked at my husband.
To that man whom I bathed for five years.
To that man who saw me stop buying clothes, stop leaving the house, stop sleeping, stop existing.
“Turn it off,” I told him.
Esteban tried to smile.
—Brenda, you’re misunderstanding.
-Hanging.
I didn’t raise my voice.
That’s what scared him.
Thomas continued speaking.
—Dad, are you there?
Esteban hung up the phone.
I don’t know what you heard, but—
I’ve heard enough.
I approached him slowly.
The wheelchair was near the window. The room smelled of clean diapers, disinfectant, and vegetable soup. The television was on, muted, showing a game show where everyone was applauding as if life were fair.
Brenda, don’t start with the drama.
I laughed.
A discreet little laugh.
Dead.
—Five years of cleaning your body and you still think my pain is drama.
His expression changed.
—You decided to stay.
Yes. And today I decided to stop serving.
Her face lost its color.
What does that mean?
I took a folder out of my bag.
He recognized her immediately.
The gray folder.
The one she kept in the bottom drawer of the cupboard, behind some old blankets.
Where did you find this?
-At home.
These are my personal documents.
—No. This proves that while I was fighting with IMSS for your therapies, you were sending money to Tomás, hiding bills, and planning to kick me out of the house I’ve been supporting for five years.
Esteban tightened the wheels on his chair.
—You can’t do this to me. I’m your husband. I’m sick.
—You don’t have a diseased tongue.
I placed a sheet of paper in front of him.
—I did not sign this power of attorney.
He stared intently at the paper.
She didn’t even blink.
That’s when I understood that he not only knew.
He had placed the order.
“It was to protect you,” he said.
Was the forgery of my signature intended to protect me?
—You didn’t understand legal matters.
No. You were praying that I would never understand.
The door opened without anyone knocking.
Tomás entered as usual, wearing a cap, expensive sneakers, and with an air of someone who owned the place.
What are you doing with my father?
I didn’t even turn around.
—Good afternoon, Tomás. At this house, we knock on the door.
This house belongs to my father.
Now I looked at that.
-No.
He laughed.
—Oh, ma’am, don’t start.
I opened another sheet.
