Strong.
Cruel.
—No, buddy, I already won —said Esteban—. Brenda is a nurse, maid, cook and driver… all for free.
I felt the bread bag slip out of my hands.
The other man laughed.
Esteban continued:
—She’s so traumatized by the “in sickness and in health” thing that she’ll never go away. I’ve got her firmly under my thumb. Cheers
I ran out of breath.
“And the inheritance?” the man asked.
Esteban burst out laughing again.
—Everything for my son, obviously. For Tomás. He’s my blood. Brenda is just looking after the house until I die.
My chest broke.
Thomas.
His son from another marriage.
The same one who used to come into my house without saying hello.
The same one who would leave dirty dishes and call me “ma’am” as if I were an employee.
The same one for whom Esteban asked me for patience.
—It affected him to see me like that, Brenda.
Lie.
It suited both of them to see me bent over.
Esteban spoke again:
—Besides, while she cleans 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 it for food and shelter.
Something in me died there.
I didn’t cry.
I didn’t go in to shout.
I didn’t throw the shells in his face.
I just turned around and left the hospital with my legs shaking.
In the parking lot, I sat down inside the car.
I gripped the steering wheel until my fingers hurt.
And I said softly:
—It’s over.
I didn’t go for him that night.
I sent the ambulance.
When he arrived at the house, he looked at me angrily from the stretcher.
—Where were you? I’ve been waiting for you.
-Busy.
He frowned.
—Did you bring my bread?
I looked at him.
For the first time in five years, I really looked at him.
I no longer saw the sick man.
I saw the monster at ease.
—I forgot.
Her face changed.
—What do you mean you forgot?
I didn’t answer.
I adjusted the pillow for him.
I covered her legs.
I gave him his pills.
I did everything the same.
But inside she was no longer the same.
I started the next day.
First I checked the papers.
Invoices.
Accounts.
Scriptures.
Receipts.
Contracts.
Everything he thought that I didn’t understand because “I was only good for taking care of him.”
I found things.
Many.
A life insurance policy.
A hidden account.
A will where my name didn’t appear, not even by mistake.
And a folder with the name Tomás on it.
Inside there were storage facilities.
Monthly.
Big.
While I was counting pesos to buy gas, Esteban was sending money to his son so he could buy motorcycles, sneakers, and trips to Cancun.
I laughed.
A dry laugh.
Not from pain.
Disgusting.
That night, while I was feeding him dinner, Esteban asked me:
—Why are you so quiet?
I wiped the corner of his mouth with a napkin.
-I’m tired.
—Well, rest when I go to sleep.
He said it without shame.
As a pattern.
As the owner.
