“What does he demand of you?” I persisted. “That the house be spotless, that the children be well-behaved and respectful, that I take perfect care of him, that I control the expenses, that I stay in shape, that they don’t make him look ridiculous,” she began, counting on her fingers. As she did so, she let out a laugh that sounded more like a cry. “As you can see, it’s nothing out of the ordinary. These are things a woman is supposed to do. It’s not like I’m useless and can’t do them properly.”
Lucia, that’s none of your business. I took her hand. It was freezing. You’re wonderful. You’re the bravest, kindest girl I’ve ever known. You had excellent grades, so many ideas. That was before, she interrupted, letting go of my hand. She downed what was left in her glass in one gulp. Now I’m just Marcos’s wife, the mother of four children, nothing more. She stood up, a little unsteady. It’s late, let’s go to sleep. Tomorrow, we’ll see. She went upstairs.
Seeing her from behind, I felt a knot in my stomach. How could the radiant, passionate, and courageous woman I knew have become this? A woman who walked with leaden feet, cautiously, trapped in a seemingly perfect life, slowly losing herself. In the middle of the night, half asleep, I heard noises downstairs. It sounded like a door opening and stealthy footsteps. It must be Marcos; he’d come back. Immediately afterward, I thought I heard a quiet argument coming from the master bedroom.
I couldn’t understand what they were saying, but their tone was anything but pleasant. After a short while, silence returned, but it was a silence heavier than any sound. The next morning, the atmosphere was noticeably different. Marcos sat at the table, frowning, staring at his phone. Lucía’s eyes were a little puffy. She prepared breakfast in silence, with slower, more careful movements than the day before. The children, sensing the tension, didn’t even dare to breathe.
Breakfast passed in almost glacial silence. Marcos put down his cutlery and looked at Lucía. “Someone has touched the papers on my desk.” His voice wasn’t loud, but it was very cold. Lucía’s body shuddered. She turned pale. “It wasn’t me. I didn’t go into the office yesterday.” “Then why aren’t they where they belong?” He glared at her. “I told you not to enter my office without permission and not to touch my things.”
“You can’t believe it. I swear it wasn’t me.” Lucía’s voice sounded as if it were about to break. “Maybe it was the children. Children are very obedient, they wouldn’t have gone in there,” Marcos interrupted, glancing at his children, who lowered their heads in fear. Finally, his gaze fell on me for a moment. There was no expression on his face, but he quickly looked away. “I hope this is the last time,” he said to Lucía in a tone that brooked no argument.
“The rules of this house are for everyone to follow, including guests.” He said the last sentence in a neutral tone, but I understood the warning behind it. Are you with me, or was he just taking advantage of the situation? Lucía bit her lip, her eyes filled with tears, and nodded repeatedly. Marco stood up, grabbed his briefcase, and stopped as he reached the door. “Oh, by the way, my parents are coming for dinner tonight. Get everything ready.”
Sofia isn’t a stranger, she can stay. With that, she opened the door and left. Lucia stood there motionless. I went over to put a hand on her shoulder, but she recoiled as if she’d been electrocuted. “I have to go get everything ready,” she said, her head down, and went to the kitchen. She began cleaning and tidying frantically, as if she wanted to pour all her anxiety into the housework. Seeing her hunched back, that feeling of unease I had intensified.
This man, Marcos, and this seemingly perfect family—how much repression and control lay hidden behind them. Her parents were coming that night. What else could possibly happen? All day long, Lucía was in a state of high tension. She was like a soldier preparing for an inspection. She cleaned the house from top to bottom, every corner, even though it was already spotless. She checked the dinner menu over and over, calculating the timings so there wouldn’t be the slightest mistake. She made the children put on their best clothes and rehearse again and again how they should greet their grandparents.
The air in the house had become thick and breathable. “You don’t have to be so nervous,” I tried to comfort her. “It’s just a family dinner.” “It’s not the same,” Lucía replied without looking up, as she scrubbed a countertop that was already gleaming. “Marco’s parents are very particular. I have to do everything perfectly.” She paused, her voice trailing off. “They’ve always thought Marcos could have married someone better. I can’t give them any reason to complain.”
Seeing her hunched back and pursed lips, I swallowed my words. Some thorns, if left unpunished, dig deeper and deeper, but to remove them, one must choose the right moment and method. In the afternoon, Lucía went into the kitchen. I offered to help her, and this time she didn’t refuse. Perhaps the company cheered her up, or perhaps she truly needed help. She prepared a traditional Spanish dinner: roast lamb, Iberian ham, Russian salad, and seafood soup for starters, and Santiago cake for dessert.
The presentation was restaurant-worthy. Marcos’s parents, who are very traditional, love these dishes, she explained, beads of sweat glistening on her forehead. At 6 o’clock sharp, the doorbell rang. Lucía jumped, quickly took off her apron, smoothed her hair, and after taking a deep breath, put on a perfect smile and went to open the door. An elderly couple entered. The gray-haired man stood as upright as Marcos. He wore a cashmere sweater and his expression was serious, with a penetrating gaze that scanned you from head to toe with an air of superiority.
The woman, equally elegant, with perfectly styled silver hair and understated makeup, had droopy corners of her lips and a critical gaze that betrayed her difficult nature. They were Marcos’s parents, Mr. and Mrs. Sánchez. “Dad, Mom, welcome,” Marcos said, greeting them with two kisses on the cheeks. His tone was more respectful than usual. Mr. Sánchez responded with a curt gesture, scanning the room and finally settling on Lucía.
Leave a Comment