PART 1
“In this house I am the boss, and your wife is good for bearing children and washing dishes.”
I heard my mother’s voice before I even stepped into the kitchen. She was carrying my son Mateo’s first birthday cake, a small bag of blue candles, and a tiny charm with the letter M that I planned to give my wife, Ana, as a surprise. I had left work early in Querétaro because I wanted to get home before everyone else, hug my baby, put on some relaxing music, and celebrate with my family.
But as I parked in front of the house, I realized something was wrong.
Pickup trucks blocked half the street, empty bottles lay by the gate, and banda music blared from the patio. The entrance smelled of shrimp, grilled meat, and expensive tequila. It wasn’t a birthday party. It was a banquet.
My mother, Doña Refugio, was in the garden wearing a new red dress, gold necklaces, and a huge smile, serving seafood to almost twenty relatives as if the house were her own. My uncles were laughing, my cousins were toasting, and one of my aunts asked:
“And Ana? Isn’t she going to come out and say hello?”
My mother let out a dry laugh.
“He’s where he belongs. In the kitchen. If he wants to live here without contributing, he should earn his keep by washing up after us.”
I felt the blood hitting my head.
Ever since Mateo was born, I gave my mother thirty thousand pesos a month to help with groceries, bills, and baby care. She swore to me that everything was under control. Every time I called from the construction site, Ana would say in a tired voice, “Everything’s fine, love. Don’t worry.”
Now I understood that “everything’s fine” was a locked door.
I slipped in through the side hallway without making a sound. The kitchen looked like a war zone: greasy pots, stacks of plates, glasses, leftover sauce, trays of shrimp, and a huge coffee maker waiting to be used. Ana sat on a small wooden stool, pale, her hair plastered to her forehead with sweat. She had Mateo in one arm and was scrubbing a heavy frying pan with the other.
My baby was crying softly, with burning skin and glassy eyes.
Ana looked up and froze.
“Sebastian… you arrived early.”
I didn’t know what hurt me more: seeing her tremble or seeing her try to hide the rag she was using to cover some bruises on her wrist.
I went over, put the cake on the table, and picked up Mateo. He was fuming. He was breathing rapidly, as if each breath was a struggle.
“Why isn’t he in the hospital?”
Ana swallowed.
“Your mom said it was an exaggeration. That she had to finish washing first, because your uncles wanted coffee.”
It was as if someone turned off the world for me.
“We’re leaving now.”
