“This house was purchased during our marriage, but the down payment came out of my account and I paid for the renovations. Furthermore, your father mortgaged it without informing me, using a forged power of attorney. My lawyer is already investigating this.”

Thomas stopped smiling.

-Attorney?

Esteban hit the armrest.

Brenda, you’re exaggerating.

No. I’m documenting it.

I grabbed my cell phone.

I played the audio.

Tomás’s voice echoed through the room:

“When my father dies, you will leave this house.”

So, Esteban’s:

“Leave her alone. As long as she’s useful to me, she can stay.”

Tomás blushed.

Esteban closed his eyes.

Turn that off.

-No.

—Brenda.

—The lawyer listened. A psychologist from the Women’s Justice Center also listened. They explained to me that they offer comprehensive legal and psychological support to women, based on their needs and from a human rights perspective. I didn’t go there to cry. I went to find out what this was called.

Esteban took a deep breath.

Did you report me?

—Not everything is over yet.

Thomas went on ahead.

—You crazy old woman, if you think you’re going to get anything from my father—

“One more step,” I interrupted him, “and I’ll call the police.”

It stopped.

Not because he respected me.

Because, for the first time, I didn’t know how far I had come.

“Thomas,” I said, “your deposits have run out.”

—You can’t do that.

“They’re not mine. They were from his father’s retirement and insurance. But the lawyer will request a review because, although he claimed he couldn’t afford a nurse, he had money for his trips to Cancun, his motorcycle, and his seventeen thousand peso sneakers.”

Thomas looked at his father.

—You said everything was settled.

Esteban shot him and killed him.

Be quiet.

I smiled.

That’s enough. Shut up amongst yourselves. I’m fed up with you.

I went to the door and opened it.

Outside, there was a woman in a white uniform with a medical backpack.

Esteban frowned.

—Who is she?
—Cláudia. Certified nurse. Night shift.

The woman entered calmly.

-Good afternoon.

Esteban looked at me as if I had betrayed him.

I don’t need a nurse.

—You said yes. You said it was worth a fortune.

Thomas laughed nervously.

And who’s going to pay for this?

I left the contract on the table.

—Your father. With his secret account.

Esteban turned white.

You don’t have access to that account.

No. My lawyer can request that your treatment be covered by your own resources. And until that’s resolved, I will no longer do 24-hour shifts free of charge.

Claudia checked the hospital bed, the catheter, the medications, and the notebook where I wrote down the times.

—Mrs. Brenda, were you carrying this all by yourself?

I nodded.

—Five years.

She looked at me with a mixture of respect and sadness.

This is not sustainable.

I almost cried.

Not because of Esteban.

For me.

Because all it took was a stranger saying a simple sentence to confirm what I had been denying for years.

It wasn’t sustainable.

It wasn’t love.

It was wear and tear disguised as virtue.

The IMSS even has documents describing how caregivers assist with basic activities like eating, bathing, dressing, moving around, and using the bathroom, and I did all of that without rest, without pay, and without gratitude.

Esteban looked at me with hatred.

—Are you going to leave me with a stranger?

No. I’ll leave you with a professional.

—You are my wife.

—And you called me a free servant.

Thomas raised his voice.

My father is in a wheelchair. You can’t abandon him!

I approached him.

—Abandonment is leaving a woman alone with catheters, diapers, debts, screams, and a hospital bed in the ward while you divide the inheritance. That’s called abdicating care.

She didn’t know what to answer.

Because kind words have always belonged to them.

Family.

Loyalty.

Sacrifice.

Now I was learning other things.

Rights.

Limits.

Demand.

Claudia began checking vital signs.
Esteban rejected her with a brusque gesture.

Don’t touch me.

She wasn’t upset.

—Mr. Esteban, I can wait. But your wife will no longer be the one taking care of him during the night.

I’m in charge of this house.

I looked around.

The room where I slept in an armchair so I could hear him breathe.

The kitchen where I ate standing up because he would call me before I could sit down.

The adapted bathroom that she cleaned every day.

The walls were covered with photos from our wedding, where I appeared in a white dress with a face that didn’t yet know what the future held for me.

“No, Esteban,” I said. “I’m not here anymore.”

That night, I slept in my room with the door closed for the first time.

I didn’t sleep well.

The body doesn’t learn to be free overnight.

I woke up several times hoping to hear his voice.

“Brenda.”

“Brenda, water.”

“Brenda, turn around so I’m facing away from you.”

“Brenda, don’t be useless.”

But Claudia was in the living room.

And whenever the urge to get up overwhelmed me, I would squeeze the pillow and repeat to myself:

I am not cruel.

I’m alive.

The following morning, Esteban didn’t speak to me.

To improve.

I made coffee, heated up a ladle I had bought for myself, and sat down at the table.

The first bite tasted of guilt.

The second one, a victory.

At ten o’clock, my lawyer, Rebeca Salas, arrived.

She entered wearing low-heeled shoes, carrying a black briefcase, and with a look that didn’t ask for permission.

-Good morning.

Esteban feigned dignity.

I will not speak without my lawyer present.

“Perfect,” she said. “Then I’ll let them know.”

Tomás arrived too.

Of course.
Vultures always recognize the scent of loss.

Rebecca retrieved the documents.

First, we will request the annulment of the power of attorney falsely signed by Ms. Brenda. Second, we will demand an accounting of the insurance, pension, and hidden accounts allegedly intended for medical care. Third, we will initiate legal proceedings for economic, psychological, and financial abuse.

Esteban snorted.

—Violence? I didn’t attack him.

Rebecca didn’t even blink.

Not all violence leaves scars.

Thomas crossed his arms.

My father needs help. If she leaves, who will take care of him?

“Mr. Esteban has resources,” Rebecca replied. “And a very worried adult son.”

Thomas opened his mouth.

She closed it.

I almost applauded.

“I can’t take care of him,” he said. “I have a job.”

“I used to work too,” I said. “But nobody called it work.”

Esteban looked at me with contempt.

—What do you want, Brenda? Money?

The question made me laugh.

—How curious. After five years of wiping your saliva, you think I’m the ambitious one?

I approached the bed.

—I want my life back. My share. My name cleared. And I want you to never again say that you support me when it was me who supported this house while you handed out money like a boss.

He clenched his teeth.

Without me, you are nobody.

In the past, that sentence would have destroyed me.

That day brought me clarity.

I’ll find out without you.

The following days were a slow war.

Esteban alternated between the roles of victim and perpetrator.

One day she was crying.

—Brenda, I was frustrated. I said stupid things.

Another day threatened.

I’m not leaving anything for you.

On another day, he used his chair as a throne.

—Let’s see who will want you after you’ve been taking care of a paraplegic for five years.

I was no longer responsible for my own actions.

Everything revolved around Rebecca.

Everything was noted down.

Everything had a date.

That was my first real revenge: to take away his kingdom of free speech.

Tomás began to despair when the deposits stopped coming in.

He arrived one afternoon shouting that he had overdue payments.

My father promised to help me.

I was folding clothes.

—Your father also promised to love me.

It’s not my fault that you’re resentful.

No. Your fault is that you took advantage of the money while treating me like an employee.

He stood at the door, looking younger than when he had been mocking her.

My mother said you had taken my place.

That made me stop.

For the first time, I saw the boy behind the gruff man.

But I didn’t make the mistake of carrying it.

—Then go to therapy, Tomás. Not steal my wallet.

He stormed out, slamming the door.

Two weeks later, Esteban had a urinary tract infection.

I would have run away before.

She would have fallen asleep sitting up.

I would have cried from fear.

This time I called Claudia, the doctor, and the ambulance.

I went to the hospital.

Yes.

Not because he deserved it.

Because I didn’t want to become what he said I was.

In the emergency room, a nurse asked me for information.

I donated them.

 

 

part3