Miguel and I had been married for seven years. From the very day we tied the knot, I agreed to live with my mother-in-law, Doña Carmen. She had suffered a stroke, was paralyzed on one side, and needed constant care—for every meal, every nap. At first, I thought it would be simple: she was my mother-in-law, I was her daughter-in-law, and caring for her was simply my duty.
What I never expected was how heavy that responsibility would become—and the hardest part was that it came from the one person who should have shared it with me: my husband, Miguel.
Miguel would go to work during the day, and at night, he stayed glued to his phone. He often said, “You’re better at taking care of Mom than I am. If I try, she’ll suffer more.” I never resented him for that.
I thought that was just how life worked: the wife takes care of the home, the husband earns a living. But then I discovered Miguel wasn’t just working—he had someone else.
One day, I stumbled upon a message: “I’m coming over tonight again. Being with you is a thousand times better than being at home.” I didn’t scream, I didn’t cry, I didn’t make a scene.
I simply asked quietly, “What about your mother, the one you’ve neglected all these years?” Miguel said nothing. The very next day, he moved out. I knew exactly where he had gone.
I looked at Doña Carmen—the woman who once criticized every bite I ate, every nap I took, who had told me I was “unworthy of being her daughter-in-law.” A lump rose in my throat. I wanted to quit everything. But then I reminded myself: a person must always maintain their dignity.
A week later, I called Miguel. “Are you free? I’ll bring your mother over so you can take care of her.”
I packed her medications, hospital records, and an old medical notebook into a cloth bag. That night, I moved her into a wheelchair and said softly, “Mom, I’m going to take you to Miguel’s place for a few days. Staying in the same spot all the time is boring.” She nodded, her eyes sparkling like a child’s.
At the small apartment, I rang the doorbell. Miguel opened it, and behind him stood the other woman, in a silk nightgown and bright red lipstick. I wheeled Doña Carmen into the living room, arranged the blankets and pillows, and set the medication bag on the table.
The house smelled strongly of perfume, but it felt cold and silent. Miguel stammered, “What… what are you doing?”
I smiled gently. “Do you remember? Mom is yours. I’m only your daughter-in-law. I cared for her for seven years—that’s enough.” The woman behind him went pale, still holding a spoonful of yogurt she hadn’t eaten.
I stepped aside calmly, as if finishing a long-planned task. “Here’s her medical history, prescriptions, diapers, pads, and cream for her sores. I’ve written down all the doses in the notebook.”
I put the notebook on the table and turned to leave. Miguel’s voice rose. “Are you abandoning my mother? This is cruel!”
I paused, without turning, and answered in a quiet, steady tone: “You neglected her for seven years—what’s that, if not cruelty? I took care of her as my own family, not because of you, but because she’s a mother. Now I’m leaving—not out of revenge, but because I’ve done my part as a human being.”
Then I looked at the other woman, meeting her eyes with a soft smile. “If you love him, love him fully. This comes with the whole package.”
I placed the house deed on the table. “The house is in my name alone. I’m not taking anything. He only took her clothes. But if you ever need money for Mom’s care, I’ll still contribute.”
Leaning down, I stroked my mother-in-law’s hair one last time. “Mom, behave here. If you feel sad, I’ll come back to see you.”
Doña Carmen smiled, her voice trembling. “Yes… come visit me when you return home.”
I left, closing the door behind me. The room was silent, filled with the lingering scent of perfume and faint massage oil. That night, I slept peacefully, free of dreams. The next morning, I woke early, took my son to breakfast, and embraced a new beginning—no tears, no resentment.
This work is inspired by real events and people, but it has been fictionalized for creative purposes. Names, characters, and details have been changed to protect privacy and enhance the narrative. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.