I am thirty-four years old. And if someone asked me what the biggest regret of my life is, I wouldn’t say it was the money lost or the opportunities I missed at work. What weighs most heavily on my heart is something much quieter… much more shameful.
For a long time I allowed my wife to suffer inside my own home.
The worst of all is that it wasn’t because I wanted to hurt her.
Simply… I didn’t see it.
Or maybe I did, but I chose not to think about it too much.
I am the youngest child in a family of four siblings. Three older sisters… and then me. My father died when I was just a teenager, and since then my mother, Doña Rosa Ramírez, had to move the house forward alone.
My sisters helped a lot, that’s true. They worked, they took care of me, they were there when we needed it most.
Maybe that’s why, since I was a child I got used to them making decisions.
They decided what was fixed in the house, what was bought in the market, they even gave their opinion on things that in theory only corresponded to me.
What he should study.
Where he should work.
Who should I meet.
I never complained.
For me… that was simply family.
That’s how I grew up.
And that’s how I lived for many years.
Until I married Lucía.
Lucía Morales is not a scandalous woman or a strong character. She is not one of those who raise her voice to win an argument. On the contrary, she has always been calm, patient… too patient, I would say now.
When I met her I fell in love with just that.
Of his soft way of speaking.
How he listened before answering.
The way he smiled even when things weren’t going well.
We got married three years ago.
And during the first half everything seemed to be going smoothly.
My mother lived in the family home and my sisters passed by often. It was normal in San Miguel del Valle that the family was always coming and going. On Sundays we almost always ended up sitting around the same table.
Eating, talking, remembering stories from the past.
Lucy at first did everything possible to please them.
He cooked.
He made coffee.
I listened respectfully when my sisters talked for hours.
I saw it as something normal.
But after a while I started noticing small details.
Comments that seemed like jokes… but they were not entirely.
“Lucia cooks well, but she still needs to learn how Mom did it,” said my older sister, Isabel.
“The women of the past did know how to really work,” Patricia added as she looked at Lucía with an all-too-perfect smile.
Lucía only lowered her head and continued washing dishes.
I listened to all that.
But he didn’t say anything.
Not because I agreed.
But because… That was how it had always been.
Eight months ago, Lucía became pregnant.
When he gave us the news I felt a joy that I cannot describe. It was as if suddenly the house had a new future.
My mother cried with emotion.
My sisters seemed happy, too.
But as the months went by… Something began to change.
Lucia began to tire faster.
It was normal.
The pregnancy progressed, and her belly grew every week.
Even so, she continued to help with everything.
I cooked when my sisters came.
He served the table.
He picked up the dishes.
I told her to rest, but she always answered the same:
“It’s okay, Diego. It’s only a few minutes.
However, those “a few minutes” almost always turned into hours.
The night that everything changed was a Saturday.
My three sisters had come over for dinner. As usual, the table ended up full of plates, glasses, spoons, leftover food and napkins.
After eating, they went straight to the living room with my mother.
I heard them laughing while watching a soap opera.
I went out to the yard for a moment to check something in my truck.
When I returned to the kitchen… I saw something that left me motionless.
Lucia was standing in front of the sink.
His back slightly hunched over.
Her huge eight-month-old belly pushing against the edge of the countertop.
His wet hands moving slowly through a mountain of dirty dishes.
The clock on the wall showed ten o’clock at night.
The house was silent, except for the sound of falling water.
I stared at her for a few seconds.
Lucia thought she hadn’t seen it. She continued to work slowly, breathing with difficulty from time to time.
Then a cup slipped from his hands and hit the sink.
She closed her eyes for a moment.
As if he was trying to gather the strength to continue.
At that moment I felt something strange in my chest.
A mixture of anger… and shame.
Because suddenly I understood something that I had ignored for a long time.
My wife… was alone in that kitchen.
While my whole family rested.
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