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 was love.
Until I heard it.
My name is Brenda.
Esteban was twenty-nine when he became paralyzed after an accident on the road to Cuernavaca.
We were newlyweds.
I still wore tight dresses, expensive perfume, and had silly dreams.
After the crash, my life became a hospital bed in the ward.
I learned how to carry it.
Take a bath.
To change his diapers.
I’m going to fight with the IMSS (Mexican Social Security Institute).
She smiled when he threw the plate because “the soup was cold.”
Everyone was telling me:
—What a good wife you are, Brenda.
And I believed it.
Because when a woman loves, she sometimes confuses sacrifice with condemnation.
That morning I went to La Esperanza for shellfish.
Vanilla.
Her favorites.
I got up at five, stood in line, bought them while they were still hot, 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 clean laugh.
