Five years. If you say it quickly, it seems like a short time. A blink of an eye in the history of the universe. But when you live those five years confined within the four walls of a hospital room or in a house that permanently smells of rubbing alcohol and diaper rash cream, time doesn’t pass; it stagnates. It becomes a thick, dark molasses that traps your feet and won’t let you move forward.
My name is Jasmine. I’m thirty years old, although if you look into my eyes, you’ll see a fifty-year-old woman. My hands, which used to be soft and well-groomed with gel manicures, are now dry, with cracked knuckles from constant washing and handling wheelchairs, dirty sheets, and heavy bodies.
It all started on the Mexico-Cuernavaca highway, on that cursed curve near La Pera that has witnessed so many accidents. David, my husband, was returning from a sales convention. He was a successful man, the kind who fills a room with his voice and laughter. He drove his truck the way he drove his life: with overconfidence and without checking his rearview mirrors. A drunk driver veered into his lane. The impact was sharp, brutal. David survived, but his spinal cord did not.
I remember the day the doctor at Hospital Ángeles gave us the diagnosis. “Complete paraplegia.” Those two words erased our future. They erased our plans to have children, to travel to Cancún in the summer, to buy a bigger house in Satélite. At that moment, I didn’t see a tragedy for myself; I saw a tragedy for him. And like any good Mexican woman, raised on telenovelas and my grandmother’s advice that “a woman is the pillar of the home,” I decided that I would be his legs. I would be his strength. I would carry everything.
I didn’t know that by carrying him, I would break myself.
The routine that Tuesday morning was identical to that of the last 1,825 days. My alarm went off at 4:30 AM. Outside, Mexico City was just beginning to wake up, shrouded in that gray haze of smog and morning chill. I got up without making a sound, although it didn’t matter anymore; David was asleep in the downstairs bedroom we had set up, and I was asleep on the living room sofa, alert to any shout, any need.
I took a warm shower, a quick five-minute luxury. While getting dressed in comfortable jeans and a cheap cotton blouse (it had been years since I’d bought myself “nice” clothes—what for? To get them stained with medicine?), I mentally reviewed my to-do list for the day:
Go to the Guadalajara pharmacy for adult diapers and gauze.
Stop by the bank to argue with the teller again because the insurance wouldn’t cover the last therapy session.
Arrive at the hospital before 8:00 AM for the shift change and make sure the nurses had rotated David.
Bring him a decent breakfast, because he hated hospital food (“it tastes like wet cardboard,” he’d say).
I left the house at 5:15 AM. The cold air hit my face, waking me up with a start. I got into my old Versa, which was practically begging for a service, and drove to the “La Esperanza” bakery on the way to the hospital.
David had a craving. He’d been complaining for two days that he wanted vanilla conchas. “But they have to be the ones with the thick crust, Jazmín, don’t bring me that garbage they sell at Oxxo,” he’d told me in that demanding tone that had become his natural voice.
I walked into the bakery and the smell enveloped me. That sweet, warm smell of butter and sugar, the smell of happy homes in Mexico. For a second, I closed my eyes and allowed myself to imagine I was an ordinary woman buying bread for an ordinary breakfast with a husband who would ask me, “How did you sleep, my love?”
“Are you going to take anything, blondie?” the employee asked me, pulling me out of my daydream.
—Yes, give me four vanilla conchas and two orejas, please. Oh, and a large Americano.
I paid with the coins I had in my wallet, counting every peso. The financial situation wasn’t great. David’s pension covered medical expenses, but the house, food, and utilities ate up my savings and the little I earned doing odd proofreading jobs in the early morning hours.
With the hot brown paper bag in my hands, I went back to the car. The traffic on the Periférico was impossible, as always. “I’m stuck in traffic,” I thought as I moved forward meter by meter, surrounded by honking horns and street vendors offering cell phone chargers. I used the time to call home and see if Tomás, my stepson, had gotten up yet.
Tomás was 22 years old. He was David’s son from his first marriage. When we got married, he was 17, and I tried to be the best stepmother in the world. But Tomás was just like his father: he took everything and gave nothing.
—Hello? —he answered with the slurred voice of someone still asleep at 7 in the morning.
—Tomás, it’s me. I’m on my way to the hospital. Can you take out the trash before you go to university? The garbage truck is coming today.
“Uh-huh… yeah, in a bit,” he grumbled and hung up.
I sighed. I knew that when I came back that night, the garbage bags would still be there, stinking up the entrance, and I’d have to take them out. “Patience, Jasmine, patience,” I told myself. “They’re suffering. Life has been hard on them.”
I arrived at the hospital at 7:45 AM. The parking lot was full, so I had to leave the car three blocks away and walk. I hugged the bag of bread to my chest to keep it warm. I wanted to see David’s face when he bit into the concha. I wanted to see that small smile, that fleeting moment when he stopped being the grumpy patient and went back to being my husband.
I entered through the rehabilitation area. The smell of chlorine and sadness hit me as always. I greeted Lupita, the receptionist.
—Good morning, Mrs. Jasmine. Your husband is already in the patio; they took him out to sunbathe a little while ago.
—Thank you, Lupita.
I walked down the long corridor, my sneakers squeaking softly on the waxed floor. At the end of the corridor were glass doors that opened onto the inner garden, a small oasis of grass and cement benches where patients in wheelchairs or with walkers came out to breathe fresh air.
I paused for a moment before leaving. There was a thick column just outside the door. I stood there to catch my breath and smooth my hair. I looked at my reflection in the glass: I had dark circles under my eyes, my hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail, and my clothes were a little loose. “I look tired,” I thought. “But it doesn’t matter, I’m here. I’m always here.”
I was about to push the door when I heard his voice. David’s voice.
It didn’t sound like the voice he used with me, that whiny, weak voice. No. It sounded strong, manly, full of an arrogance I thought was dead.
—…well, yes, my friend, that’s how it is —he was saying—. Life takes away your legs, but it gives you other compensations if you’re smart.
I froze. My hand hung suspended over the doorknob. David wasn’t alone. From the angle of the reflection, I could see him talking to Mr. Rogelio, another rehab patient, an older, loud man who was always telling off-color jokes.
“But don’t you feel bad, man?” Rogelio said with a raspy little laugh. “I mean, the girl seems to be going out of her way to help you. The other day I saw her carrying you to the stretcher, and you could see her arms were shaking. She’s so thin.”
My heart started beating fast. They were talking about me.
There was a brief silence. Then, David laughed. A dry, cynical laugh.
“Oh, Rogelio, don’t be sentimental. Look, Jazmín is a good person, I’m not denying that. But let’s be realistic. What was she going to do? Leave me? She has nowhere to go. And honestly, I hit the jackpot.”
I squeezed the bread bag. The warm shells flattened under my fingers.
—What do you mean, the lottery? —Rogelio asked.
“Yeah, dude. Think about it.” David’s voice dropped a little, but in the morning silence, every word echoed like a cannon blast in my ears. “I have a full-time nurse, cook, driver, and maid. And you know how much it costs me? Zero pesos. Nothing. I don’t even have to pay social security.”
I tasted something metallic in my mouth. Was that me? A budget item saved?
—Hey, but she’s your wife, you bastard— said Rogelio, although he was laughing, celebrating the “joke”.
“She’s my wife, yes. But she’s become… how can I put it? Useful. Very useful. She’s obedient. I tell her, ‘Move me here,’ and she runs. I tell her, ‘I want this food,’ and she goes and gets it. It’s like having a mother and a maid rolled into one. And the best part of all…” David paused dramatically, as if about to reveal the secret of the century. “The best part is that she thinks she’s going to get everything when I die.”
—Right?
“No way!” David exclaimed, and I heard the sound of his hand slamming on the armrest of the chair. “I’m not stupid, Rogelio. I’ve already sorted out my paperwork. Everything, absolutely everything, goes to Tomás. The house, the life insurance, the bills. Tomás is my blood, he’s my last name. Jazmín… Jazmín is young. When I kick the bucket, she can find some other sucker to support her, if he’s still around, because I’ve got her well and truly under my thumb.”
Rogelio let out a loud laugh, coughing a little at the end.
—You’re a dog, David. A lucky dog.
“We have to be practical, my friend. If I tell her I’m not going to leave her anything, she might just ditch me and leave. So I keep her hoping. A little smile here, a ‘thank you, my love’ there, and I’ve got her eating out of my hand. It’s cheaper than paying for a nursing home, I assure you. In a nursing home, they’d treat me worse, and it would cost me 30,000 pesos a month. She’s free. She’s my luxury servant.”
The world stopped.
I literally felt the Earth’s axis stop spinning. The distant traffic noise vanished. The buzzing of the vending machines faded away. All that remained was the echo of those words bouncing around in my skull: “High-class maid.” “Free.” “No way.” “Find someone else.”
I looked at the bag in my hands. The sweet bread, my small gesture of morning love, now seemed like an insult. I had gotten up before dawn, spent my last coins, walked blocks carrying his favorite breakfast… for this? To be the butt of a joke between two bitter old people in a hospital courtyard?
A single, hot tear rolled down my cheek. It wasn’t from sadness. It was from rage. A pure, incandescent rage, born from deep within.
I remembered those five years.
I remembered the night I had a fever of 39 degrees and still got up to change his sheets because he had wet the bed and I didn’t want to wait for the nurse.
I remembered when I sold the jewelry my grandmother left me to pay for the special medicine that insurance didn’t cover.
I remembered Christmases spent in waiting rooms, eating cold sandwiches while Tomás went out partying with his friends.
“She’s my blood,” he had said. “She’s useful.”
My first instinct was to go in. To kick that door open, throw the boiling coffee in his face, and scream until I was hoarse. I wanted to see the look of terror on his face when he realized I’d heard him. I wanted to overturn his wheelchair.
But I stopped.
My hands were trembling, but strangely, my mind began to cool. If I went in now and made a scene, I’d be “the crazy one.” I’d be the hysterical wife who abandons a poor cripple. He’d play the victim, as always. He’d say I’d misinterpreted everything, that I was just joking. Tomás would take his side. Everyone would judge me.
And the worst part: I’d leave with nothing. Five years of slavery to come out with nothing.
No.
I took a step back, moving away from the glass. I pressed myself against the wall of the corridor, taking deep breaths. I inhaled the scent of antiseptic and exhaled the scent of submission. In that hospital corridor, the Jasmine they knew, the “good” Jasmine, the “helpful” Jasmine, died silently.
I glanced at a nearby trash can. With a slow, deliberate movement, I walked over to it and dropped in the bag of shells and coffee. The dull thud of the cups and bread hitting the bottom of the can was the only sound I made.
“Goodbye, breakfast,” I whispered.
I turned around and walked toward the exit. I didn’t go back in to see him. Not right then. I needed air. I needed to think. I needed a plan.
I left the hospital and the sun was already high. It hurt my eyes. I walked to my car, got in, and locked the doors. And there, in the safety of my old Versa, I screamed. I screamed until my throat hurt. I screamed for the five lost years. I screamed for the woman I used to be, the one who no longer existed. I screamed for the stupidity of believing in unconditional love when the other person only believed in convenience.
When I finished screaming, I wiped my face with the back of my hand. I looked at myself in the rearview mirror. My eyes were red, but there was something new about them. A hardness that hadn’t been there that morning.
I took out my cell phone. I had three missed messages from David.
Where are you? It’s late.
I’m hungry.
Jasmine, answer me.
I looked at the messages and felt… nothing. No guilt, no anxiety. Just absolute coldness.
I wrote a reply:
“I got a flat tire. I’ll be there when I can.”
That’s a lie. I hadn’t gotten a flat tire. But he didn’t know that. Let him wait. Let him wait and get hungry. Let him start to learn what it feels like when the “free maid” stops working.
I started the car, but I didn’t go home, or to the tire shop. I went to a place I hadn’t been to in a long time: the public library. I needed internet, I needed silence, and above all, I needed to know exactly what rights a wife had in the State of Mexico when her husband planned to leave her on the street.
David thought he was playing chess and that I was a pawn. What he didn’t know is that when a pawn reaches the other side of the board, it becomes a Queen. And the Queen is the most dangerous piece in the game.
As I was driving, I turned on the radio. A banda song was playing, something about betrayal and heartbreak. I’d normally change the channel, but today… today I left it playing at full volume.
The war had begun. And he didn’t even know the enemy was already inside the house.
Going back to the hospital was the hardest acting job I’ve ever done. If there was ever an Oscar for “Devoted Wife in Crisis,” I deserved it that morning.
I sat in the car for about fifteen more minutes after drying my tears. I looked at my face in the sun visor mirror. My eyes were still red and swollen, but a little cheap makeup and a few drops of Visine did the trick. I let my hair down to cover the sides of my face a bit and rehearsed my expression. I couldn’t go in looking furious, or like a victim. I had to go in with my usual face: the face of the Resolved Jasmine, the Jasmine Who Solves Problems, the Useful Jasmine.
“You can do this,” I told myself, gripping the steering wheel until my knuckles turned white. “You’re a spy in enemy territory. Don’t let them see you bleed.”
I got out of the car and walked back toward the emergency room entrance. The sun was already scorching the asphalt. I could feel the heat penetrating the soles of my worn sneakers. Every step I took toward that gray building was like walking toward the gallows, but this time, the condemned man wasn’t going to beg for mercy; he was going to memorize the faces of his executioners.
I arrived at room 304. The door was ajar. From outside, I heard the hum of the television on some morning gossip show, one of those where everyone shouts and no one can hear each other. I took a deep breath, counted to three, and pushed the door open.
There he was. David.
They had already helped him into bed. He was lying down in that dethroned king pose he had perfected over the last five years. He had the remote control in one hand and his cell phone in the other. When he saw me come in, he didn’t smile. His brow furrowed immediately, transforming his face into a mask of reproach.
“Finally!” he exclaimed, dropping his phone onto the sheets with a dramatic thud. “Do you have any idea what time it is, Jasmine? I’ve been lying here like an old piece of furniture for an hour. The nurse came to ask for you three times. Three times! I felt like an abandoned dog.”
In another time, in my previous life (the one that ended an hour ago in the hallway), I would have been overflowing with apologies. I would have rushed to her side, stroked her sweaty forehead, and said, “Forgive me, my love, forgive me.”
But not today.
I stood at the foot of the bed, keeping a safe distance. My voice came out calm, almost mechanical.
“I got a flat tire on the Viaduct, David. I had to wait for a roadside assistance vehicle or someone to help me because the car’s jack is stuck. You know, that old car you never wanted to trade in.”
The lie flowed from my lips with an ease that frightened me.
David snorted, rolling his eyes.
“Things are always happening to you, Jazmín. Always. You just don’t pay attention. You probably hit a huge pothole and didn’t even notice because you’re so busy. You need to pay more attention, woman. You’ve got me here with my heart in my mouth while you’re out there wrecking the car.”
“Wrecking the car.” Of course. It was always my fault. Even in my lie, I was the inept one.
“I’m sorry,” I said, without feeling it at all. “I’m here now.”
His gaze dropped to my empty hands. He frowned even more, like a spoiled child who’d been denied his treat.
—And the shells?
The silence stretched out in the room, thick and sticky. I could hear my own heartbeat in my ears.
“There are no shells,” I said flatly.
“What do you mean there are no conchas?” Her voice rose an octave, tinged with disbelief. “You told me you were going to ‘La Esperanza.’ I specifically asked for the vanilla ones. I’ve been dreaming about that damn bread for two days, Jazmín.”
“With the tire problem, I forgot them on the passenger seat while the man was helping me change the tire,” I improvised. “And when I realized it, I was already late. I wasn’t going to turn back.”
David looked at me as if I had just confessed to a murder.
“Unbelievable,” he muttered, shaking his head. “Simply unbelievable. I’m asking you for just one thing. One. I’m paralyzed, Jasmine. I can’t go get them myself. I depend on you for everything, and you can’t even bring me a simple sweet roll. Is it so hard for you? Is it so much trouble to please me with something so small?”
There it was. The masterful manipulation. The low blow of “I’m paralyzed.” Before, that phrase would have brought me to my knees with guilt. Now, I only remembered his words in the courtyard: “She’s my luxury maid… she comes free of charge.”
“I’m sorry,” I repeated, in the same monotone voice. “Have they served you breakfast here yet?”
“That disgusting gelatin and watery scrambled egg,” he spat. “I didn’t eat it. I’m hungry, Jasmine. Very hungry.”
“I’ll see if I can get you something at the cafeteria,” I said, turning away so I wouldn’t have to look him in the eyes.
“No, not anymore,” she stopped me with a wave of her hand. “I’ve lost my hunger from anger. Help me get changed. The doctor said they’ll discharge me at noon if my blood pressure is okay. I want to get out of here. This place smells like death.”
I approached the bed. The physical ritual I knew by heart began, but which now felt like a violation of my dignity.
I lowered the bed rail with a metallic click.
I brought the wheelchair closer.
I locked the wheels.
I removed the sheet.
There were his legs, thin, atrophied from lack of use. Legs I massaged every night with expensive creams to reactivate circulation. Legs I cleaned. I leaned over him to hug him by the torso and lift him.
The scent of his lotion mixed with the acrid smell of hospital sweat filled my nostrils. I felt his heavy arm encircle my neck.
“On the count of three,” I said.
“Watch my back, Jasmine. You pinched me last time,” she warned close to my ear.
-One two three.
I strained. I felt the familiar pull in my lower back. Despite being thin, I had developed an unusual strength, the strength of a beast of burden. I lifted him, turned my body, and placed him in the chair.
He settled down, grumbling.
—The cushion is crooked. Straighten it.
I bent down, submissive, and adjusted the cushion under her buttocks.
-So?
—There. And put my feet firmly in the stirrups, I don’t want them to drag.
I did it. I stood up and shook my hands, as if I wanted to rid myself of the sensation of his touch.
—Okay. I’ll check on the registration papers.
I practically ran out of the room. I needed to get away from him. I needed to breathe. In the hallway, I leaned against the cold wall and closed my eyes.
“Free maid.”
“She’s obedient.”
“Enjoy your obedience while it lasts, David,” I whispered. “Because it’s going to end.”
The journey home was a miniature hell inside a Nissan Versa.
David hated my car. He said the suspension was too stiff, the seats were uncomfortable, the engine sounded like an old ratchet. But never, in five years, did he offer to buy a better one with his own money. He only used his modified minivan, the “Sienna,” when Tomás deigned to drive him to important appointments where David wanted to show off his status. For everyday life, for the grind, we used my car.
—Turn on the air conditioning, I’m roasting —he ordered from the passenger seat.
I turned it on. The air conditioner was slow to cool down.
“It’s not cooling at all. You should get it checked out. Of course, since you don’t pay for the repairs…” he muttered, looking out the window with disdain.
I gripped the steering wheel. I paid for the repairs. With the money I earned from my freelance work, with what I saved on expenses. He paid for the gas, yes, but the maintenance came out of my pocket because “the car is in your name, Jazmín, it’s your responsibility.”
—Put on the news. I want to know how the dollar is doing.
I changed the station. A radio announcer was talking about the unstable economy.
“See,” David said, pointing an accusing finger at the radio. “That’s why you have to be smart with money. You can’t just waste it on nonsense. You have to protect your assets.”
I almost laughed. A hysterical laugh bubbled up in my throat. “Protecting the inheritance.” Translation: Hiding my wife’s money to give it to my useless son.
“Yes, David,” I said softly. “You have to be very clever.”
We arrived at the house in Coyoacán. It was an old house, from the 1970s, large, cold, and damp. It belonged to the family of his first wife, who died of cancer ten years ago. David always said the house was “his legacy.” I never felt like I owned anything there. I couldn’t even change the living room curtains because “Tomás liked the ones his mother put up.”
I parked the car in the driveway.
—Help me down. And quickly, I really need to go to the bathroom.
We got out. Transferring him from the car to the chair was always tricky on the uneven sidewalk. A neighbor walked by with his dog and waved.
—Good afternoon, Don David! I’m back! What a lovely wife you have!
David gave her a bright smile, that politician’s campaign smile he reserved for the public.
—That’s right, neighbor! An angel from heaven! I don’t know what I’d do without her!
The neighbor smiled at me and went on his way. I felt like shouting at him, “That’s a lie! He despises me! He’s stealing from me!” But I just nodded and pushed the chair toward the door.
As I opened the front door, the smell hit me.
It smelled of confinement, of old pizza and dampness.
“Tomás!” David shouted as soon as we entered. “Tomás, we’re here!”
No one answered.
In the living room, the coffee table was covered with empty pizza boxes, beer cans, and overflowing ashtrays. Clothes were strewn across the sofa. Shoes were scattered in the walkway.
David sighed, but not angrily, rather with a paternal indulgence that made me sick.
“Oh, this boy. Looks like he had visitors last night. Poor thing, he must be stressed about my hospital stuff.”
Stressed? Stressed from eating pizza and drinking beer while I slept in a plastic chair in the ER?
“I’m going to clean,” I said, leaving the keys in the entryway.
—Yes, please. This place is a pigsty. I don’t know how you can let the house get like this, Jazmín. You leave for a few days and everything falls apart. It’s obvious you’re needed to keep things tidy.
There it was again. The blame. He made a mess, Tomás made a mess, but the responsibility for keeping things clean was mine. If the house was dirty, it was because I had failed, not because they were pigs.
I took David to his studio, where he liked to spend his afternoons looking at his accounts on the computer.
—Bring me a glass of water with ice. And find Tomás for me.
I went to the kitchen. The sink was a mountain of dirty dishes with food scraps stuck to them. Ants were crawling on a soda stain on the counter. I felt a pang of despair. Before, I would have burst into tears of frustration as I put on my rubber gloves to scrub.
Today, I looked at the dishes coldly.
I filled a glass with tap water (not filtered, a small act of rebellion) and added two ice cubes. I took it to David.
—Thank you. Close the door on your way out. I need to make some private calls.
“Private calls.” He was probably going to call his lawyer. Or Tomás to laugh at me again.
I went upstairs to Tomás’s room. The door was closed and rap music was blasting. I knocked loudly.
“What?!” he shouted from inside.
I opened the door. Tomás was lying on his bed, with his headphones on (although the music was coming from speakers), playing video games on a huge screen that I helped pay for with my savings two Christmases ago.
He didn’t get up. He didn’t even look at me. He just kept killing zombies on the screen.
“Your dad’s here,” I said, raising my voice over the music.
“Ah, cool,” he murmured, without taking his eyes off the game. “I’ll come down in a bit.”
—He wants to see you now. And the living room is disgusting. I need you to take your pizza boxes down to the trash.
Tomás paused the game slowly. He turned his gaming chair around and looked at me. He had the same eyes as his father: dark, calculating, mocking.
—Hey, Jasmine, calm down a bit, okay? You just got here and you’re already being a pain. My dad just got out of the hospital, he doesn’t want to hear you yelling.
—I’m not yelling. I’m asking you to clean up your mess.
—Well, you clean it up. That’s what you’re here for all day, right? I study. I have things to do. You don’t do anything, you just take care of my dad and play the victim.
I felt the heat rise up my neck. The insolence. The exact echo of David’s words. “That’s what you’re here for.” “You do nothing.”
—I’m your stepmother, Tomás. And this is my house too.
He let out a short, dry laugh.
“Your house…” she repeated, as if it were the funniest joke in the world. “Yeah, right. Keep believing that. Go on, go take care of my dad, that’s why you married him, right? For the money.”
I was stunned. Because of the wool? What wool? We barely had enough. I bought my clothes at the flea market. I cooked amazing meals with leftovers.
“Go downstairs and see your father,” I said in a trembling voice, and I left the room before he could see how his words affected me.
I went downstairs with trembling legs. I locked myself in the downstairs guest bathroom. I looked at myself in the mirror.
“Don’t cry,” I ordered myself. “Don’t cry. Use it. Use this hatred. Let it be your fuel.”
I left the bathroom and went to the kitchen. I didn’t wash the dishes. I didn’t tidy the living room. I just moved the pizza boxes to a corner so they wouldn’t block the wheelchair, and I sat down at the dining room table to wait.
The afternoon dragged on, suffocating. Tomás finally went downstairs at 4:00 PM. He entered his father’s study and they closed the door. They were there for two hours. He heard murmurs, laughter, the sound of paper being shuffled.
I was outside, in the living room, pretending to read a book, but my ears were tuned up like radar. I couldn’t make out the exact words, but the tone was conspiratorial. Of male camaraderie. Of father and son against the world… and against me.
At 7:00 PM, they left.
“Jasmine, we’re hungry,” David said, leaving the studio with a relaxed smile, as if he’d had a great day. “What’s for dinner?”
I got up from the armchair.
—There’s leftover ground meat from three days ago. And tortillas.
“Ground beef again?” Tomás complained. “Yuck. Just order some pizzas, man.”
“No, son, we have to save. I already told you finances are tight,” David said, winking almost imperceptibly. “Eat the hash brown that Jasmine made. Poor thing, she worked hard.”
I went to the kitchen to heat up the ground meat. While the meat sizzled in the pan, I glanced at the spice cabinet. There, hidden behind an old oregano jar, was a small glass jar filled with emergency cash. It was 200 and 500 peso bills that I kept from making change while running errands. My “nest egg.”
I touched it with my fingertips. There were about three thousand pesos there. It wasn’t much, but it was a start.
I served dinner. They ate talking about football and cars. I ate in silence, chewing each bite as if it were cardboard.
“It was good, Jaz,” Tomás said when he finished, pushing the dirty plate toward the center of the table. “It’s a little salty, but it’s okay.”
—Thank you —I said.
—Well, I’m off. I have a party with my college friends —Tomás announced, getting up—. Dad, can I borrow the truck?
—Of course, son. The keys are on the keyring. Be careful.
Tomás grabbed the keys to the Sienna, the adapted and expensive van, and drove off whistling.
David stayed at the table, looking at me.
—What’s wrong with you today? You’re very quiet.
—I’m tired, David. The hospital, the tire, everything.
—Well, get some rest. But first, help me go to the bathroom and prepare my medicine. I want to go to sleep now.
The process of putting him to bed was tedious. Brushing his teeth (because sometimes he said his arms hurt to do it himself), putting on his pajamas, carrying him to bed, arranging the pillows, giving him a glass of water, giving him his pills: Losartan, Clonazepam, vitamins.
—Good night, Jasmine. Turn off the light.
-Good night.
I closed her bedroom door. I stood in the dark hallway.
The clock in the room read 10:30 PM.
Wait.
I sat on the sofa in the dark, listening to the sounds of the house. The refrigerator whirring. The distant traffic. And finally, after forty minutes, the unmistakable sound: David’s snores. They were deep, rhythmic, heavy with the effects of the Clonazepam. He wouldn’t wake up even if a bomb went off.
It was the moment.
I took off my sneakers so I wouldn’t make any noise. I walked barefoot on the cold tile floor. I felt the adrenaline surge through my veins, an electric shock that made my skin crawl.
I went to the studio.
The door was closed, but not locked. David never locked the inside of the house because he felt like the absolute emperor; he didn’t fear rebellions because he believed his subjects were loyal and stupid.
I turned the knob slowly. Click.
I went in. The study smelled of stale tobacco (David sometimes smoked in secret) and old paper. Moonlight streamed through the window, illuminating the mahogany desk that stood in the center of the room. That desk was his sanctuary. I was forbidden to touch his papers under penalty of shouting and insults. “You don’t understand this stuff, you mess everything up,” he always said.
I turned on my cell phone’s flashlight. The beam of white light cut through the darkness.
I approached the desk. It was strangely tidy. There was a stack of hospital bills, travel agency brochures (travel?) and car magazines.
I started opening the drawers.
The first one had pens, paper clips, and staplers.
The second one had old cables and chargers.
The third one… was locked.
Curse.
I tried pulling it hard. Nothing. It was stuck. I looked around. Where did I keep the key? David wasn’t a creative man. I looked under the computer keyboard. Nothing. I looked in the pencil case, among the dried-out markers. Nothing.
Then I remembered.
A year ago, I saw David put something in the plastic plant pot that was in the corner, on top of the bookshelf. At the time, I didn’t think much of it.
I approached the dusty flowerpot. I dipped my fingers into the artificial soil and decorative stones. My fingers touched something metallic and cold.
¡Bingo!
I took out a small, silver key. My hands were shaking so much I almost dropped it. I took a deep breath. “Calm down, Jasmine. If he catches you, say you were looking for a feather. No, that’s stupid. Say you heard a noise.”
I went to the drawer. I put the key in. It turned smoothly.
The drawer slid out.
Inside were colored folders, perfectly labeled in David’s spiky handwriting.
RED: Doctors.
BLUE: Home.
GREEN: Bank.
BLACK: Miscellaneous.
I took out the BLACK folder. I opened it on the desktop.
The first thing I saw was a recent Banorte bank statement. My eyes scanned the numbers.
Total balance: $1,250,000.00 MXN.
My heart nearly jumped out of my chest. One million two hundred and fifty thousand pesos.
He always told me we were “just getting by.” That there wasn’t enough money to buy me orthopedic shoes, that there wasn’t enough money to fix my car, that there wasn’t enough money to hire a support nurse.
He lied to me. All this time, he lied to my face while I was counting pennies to buy tortillas.
I turned the page.
There was a document dated two months prior.
Interbank Transfer.
Destination: Santander Account in the name of Tomás R.
Amount: $800,000.00 MXN.
Description: Donation.
Eight hundred thousand pesos. He gave almost a million pesos to his lazy son while scolding me for spending 50 pesos on sweet bread.
I felt nauseous. I had to lean on the desk to keep from falling. The physical betrayal hurt more than a blow. It was robbery. A calculated, cold, and ruthless robbery.
I kept searching. At the bottom of the folder, I found what appeared to be a draft will or an insurance policy.
“MetLife Life Insurance”
Sum insured: $3,000,000.00 MXN.
Beneficiaries:
1. Tomás R. (Son) – 80%
2. Alexis B. (Sister) – 20%
Handwritten marginal notes by David: “Make sure the house is in Tomás’s name via lifetime gift to avoid probate proceedings where J. could fight.”
J.
Jasmine.
Me.
There it was, written in his own hand. “Prevent J. from fighting.”
It wasn’t just that he didn’t want to leave me anything. It was that he was actively planning to strip me of any rights before he died. He wanted to leave me on the street, old, tired, and poor, after having squeezed every last drop of my youth dry.
I took out my cell phone. My hands were no longer trembling. Now they were firm, guided by an iron will.
I took photos.
Photo of the bank statement. Click.
Photo of Tomás’s transfer. Click.
Photo of the insurance policy. Click.
Photo of the handwritten notes. Click.
I photographed everything. Every page, every number, every piece of evidence of his infamy.
I put everything back in the folder exactly as it was. I closed the drawer. I put the key in the flowerpot.
I left the studio and carefully closed the door.
I went back to the living room and sat down on the sofa, in the dark.
I looked at my phone screen, where the photos shone. Those images were my shield and my sword.
“You wanted a free maid, David,” I whispered into the darkness, feeling a single, fiery tear roll down my cheek. “Well, you’ve just hired your worst nightmare.”
I didn’t sleep that night. I lay awake, staring at the ceiling, plotting. I already had the motivation (the hatred). I already had the evidence (the photos). Now I needed allies. I would call tomorrow.
To Nadia. The counterattack would begin tomorrow.
But for now, in the silence of that cursed house, I smiled. A crooked, dangerous smile. Because for the first time in five years, I was in control. He had the money, but I had the truth. And the truth, when used well, cuts deeper than any scalpel.
The morning after the documents were discovered didn’t dawn; the sky simply turned from black to a dirty gray, as if Mexico City itself had a hangover. I hadn’t slept a wink all night. Every time I heard the old house creak or the refrigerator whir, my heart leaped. I had my cell phone tucked under my pillow on the sofa, like a grenade with the pin pulled. The photos. The evidence. My ticket out.
David woke up at 6:00 AM with his usual war cry:
“Jasmine! The potty!”
Once upon a time, that cry would have made me jump, filled with guilt for not anticipating their need. Today, I got up slowly. I stretched. I felt every vertebra in my spine crack. I took my time putting on my slippers.
“Jasmine, damn it!” he shouted again, this time in that high-pitched tone he used when he felt he was losing control.
I walked to his room. I opened the door and saw him there, defenseless but tyrannical, his face red with anger.
—Are you deaf or what? I’ve been screaming for ten minutes. I’m about to wet myself.
I stood in the doorway a second longer than necessary, staring at him. I thought about the 800,000 pesos. I thought about the insurance policy where my name wasn’t listed. I thought about “the free maid.”
“I’m coming, David. Don’t shout, you’ll wake the neighbors,” I said with icy calm.
I did what I had to do. I cleaned, changed, adjusted. But my hands, which had once been soft and caring, were now efficient and cold. There were no “How are you this morning?”, no caresses on the shoulder, no “It’ll be over soon.” Only silence and the rustling of the plastic gloves and sheets.
“You’re acting very strange,” he said as he raised the head of the electric bed. “You have that look on your face when you’ve got a stupid idea in your head. Are you still angry about yesterday? Get over it, Jasmine. You hold a grudge.”
“I’m not angry, David,” I replied, and it was true. Anger burns, and I had already been consumed. All that remained were cold ashes. “I’m just thinking.”
—Well, stop thinking and start cooking. I want chilaquiles. Green ones. With lots of cream and onion. And the chicken has to be finely shredded, not like last time when you left big chunks and I almost choked.
“There’s no chicken,” I lied. There was a whole chicken breast in the freezer.
—Well, go shopping. Or get something. I don’t know, figure it out. That’s what you’re the woman of the house for.
“The woman of the house.” That phrase made me want to vomit.
I left the room and went to the kitchen. Instead of chilaquiles, I put water on to boil for oatmeal. Plain oatmeal, with water, no milk. Prison food for the jailer.
While the water was boiling, I heard the front door open. It was Tomás. He was coming home from his party, wearing the same clothes as yesterday, his eyes bloodshot, and smelling of cigarettes and cheap mezcal.
She walked past the kitchen without looking at me, straight to the refrigerator. She took out the carton of milk and drank straight from the carton. A trickle of milk ran down her chin. She wiped it with her sleeve.
“Ew, Tomás,” I said. “Use a glass.”
He turned slowly, swaying slightly. He looked at me with that mixture of contempt and superiority he had learned so well from his father.
—Don’t mess with me, Jazmín. I have a hangover that’s killing me.
—Well, go sleep off your hangover somewhere else or show some respect. I’m not your maid.
Tomás let out a hoarse laugh.
“Oh, really?” She took a step closer, invading my personal space. She smelled of stale sweat. “Well, it seems so. Because you wash my clothes, you clean my dishes, and you wipe my dad’s ass. So, technically, you are the maid. And if you don’t like it, the door is wide open. Get out. After all, we don’t even need you. My dad already told me you’re just for show.”
That was it.
That was the moment.
The final click.
I didn’t answer him. I didn’t yell at him. I simply turned off the stove. The water for the oatmeal stopped bubbling.
“You’re right, Tomás,” I said gently. “The door is very wide.”
I left the kitchen, leaving him standing there with the milk carton in his hand, a confused look on his face. I ran upstairs, but quietly. I went into the guest bathroom and locked the door. I sat on the toilet seat and took out my phone. My fingers were shaking so much that it was hard to unlock the screen.
I looked through my contacts. I hadn’t called her in years, but I never deleted her.
Nadia – Flower Shop.
I dialed.
One. Two. Three tones.
“Hello?” Nadia’s voice sounded fresh and lively, with music playing in the background. She was probably opening the store.
—Nadia… —My voice broke. I only said her name and felt the dam I had been holding back for five years break.
There was a brief silence on the other end. Then, Nadia’s tone instantly changed from casual to red alert.
—Jasmine? Is that you? Jasmine! What’s wrong? Are you okay? Did that jerk do something to you?
—Nadia… you were right. You were right about everything.
I started to cry, but it wasn’t a cry of sadness, it was a cry of liberation. I told her, rushed and in fierce whispers, what had happened. About the hospital. About Tomás. The documents. The robbery.
“You son of a…!” Nadia shouted, and I heard something fall to the bottom, maybe pruning shears. “Listen to me carefully, Jasmine. Get out of there. Right now. Not in an hour, not tomorrow. Right now.”
—I have nowhere to go. My family is in Veracruz, I have no money to…
“You’re coming to my house!” she interrupted firmly. “I have an empty room. I have food. I have a lawyer. And I really want to punch that guy in the face, but first I need you safe. Can you leave now?”
—They’re downstairs. David is waiting for breakfast and Tomás is drunk in the kitchen.
—Grab only what you need. Your papers, your basic clothes. Leave everything else. Material things can be replaced, but your life can’t. I’ll wait for you at the flower shop. Do you know how to get there?
—Yes. He’s still in Coyoacán, right?
—Yes, on Francisco Sosa Street. Run, Jasmine. Fly.
I hung up. I wiped my tears with my t-shirt sleeve. I looked at myself in the mirror. The woman staring back at me was pale, with dark circles under her eyes, disheveled, but she had fire in her gaze.
I left the bathroom. I went to the guest room (my “room,” though it was more of a storage room for old things) and took out a reusable supermarket bag, one of those big, eco-friendly cloth ones. I couldn’t take out a suitcase; the noise of the wheels would alert David.
I packed the essentials:
two changes of clothes,
my underwear,
my toothbrush,
and most importantly, my personal folder. That folder I had hidden under the mattress with my birth certificate, my (expired) passport, my university degree (which I never used because I was taking care of him), and the little cash I had saved.
I looked around. There were books I loved. There was a sweater my mother knitted for me before she died. There were photos.
“Leave it,” an inner voice told me. “It’s the price of freedom. Travel light.”
I closed the bag. I slung it over my shoulder. It weighed very little. Five years of life summarized in three kilos of fabric and paper.
I went downstairs. My heart was beating so loudly I thought they could hear it.
As I walked through the living room, I saw David. He had somehow crawled (or perhaps Tomás helped him before he went upstairs and fainted) to his wheelchair and was standing in the doorway of his room, shouting towards the kitchen.
—Jasmine! It smells like gas! You turned off the stove! Where the hell is my oatmeal?
I stopped about six feet away from him. He turned his chair around and saw me. He saw the bag over my shoulder. He saw my shoes on. He saw the car keys in my hand.
His expression changed from anger to confusion, and then to a dark suspicion.
“Where are you going?” he asked, squinting.
I gripped the car keys. The metal dug into my palm, a necessary pain to keep me in the present.
“I’m going to the pharmacy,” I said. My voice sounded strangely calm. “They’re out of rubbing alcohol for your bandages. And there’s no gauze.”
David looked at the bag on my shoulder.
—And that bag?
“It’s dirty laundry. I’m going to the laundromat. The washing machine isn’t working; it makes a strange noise, and I’m not going to wash it by hand today.”
It was a flimsy lie. The washing machine worked perfectly. But David was so egocentric, so certain of my submissiveness, that the idea that I was abandoning him didn’t even cross his narcissistic mind. To him, I was a satellite that couldn’t exist without its planet.
“Ah… well, hurry up,” she grumbled. “And bring me some Gansitos from the store when you get back. I’m craving something sweet.”
—Yes, David. Some Gansitos.
I walked toward the door. I passed by him. I smelled him, that smell of confinement, of a sick man, that had been my surroundings for half a decade. I felt the urge to turn around and spit at him. To shout at him: “I know about the money! I know about Tomás!”
But no. Silence was my best weapon. If I yelled at him, he’d prepare. He’d call his lawyers, hide the money better, change the locks. I had to keep him in the dark a little longer.
I opened the front door. The morning sun streamed in, illuminating the dust that floated in the air of the house.
“Close it properly, the cold is getting in,” he shouted from behind.
I went out.
I closed the door.
Click.
That sound was the most beautiful sound I had ever heard. It was the sound of a chain breaking.
I walked toward my Versa. My legs felt like jelly. I got in, tossed my bag onto the passenger seat, and put the key in the ignition. The engine coughed a little before starting.
“Please start, please don’t let me down today,” I prayed.
The engine roared.
I started driving without looking back. I didn’t look at the studio window. I didn’t look at the overgrown garden I used to mow. I only looked ahead, toward the street, toward the avenue, toward Coyoacán.
I drove with sweaty palms. Every red light felt like an eternity. I felt like my cell phone would ring at any moment, or that the police would pull me over and accuse me of abandoning a vulnerable person. Paranoia whispered in my ear, “What if they sue you? What if they put you in jail?”
“Let them try,” I thought, touching my pocket where my cell phone with the photos was. “I have proof.”
I arrived in the center of Coyoacán twenty minutes later. The neighborhood was awake, full of tourists, balloon vendors, and the smell of coffee and churros. Life went on, vibrant and colorful, completely oblivious to my personal hell.
I parked near Francisco Sosa Street. I walked quickly, clutching my bag, until I saw the hand-painted wooden sign: “Petals and Purpose.” The facade was covered with pots of pink and red geraniums, and a bougainvillea vine cascaded from the roof.
I went in.
The little bell on the door rang. Ding-ling.
The air inside was fresh, humid, and smelled of tuberose and eucalyptus. It was a clean smell. A smell of life.
Nadia was behind the counter, arranging a bouquet of enormous sunflowers. When she saw me come in, she dropped the flowers.
She looked the same as she did two years ago, perhaps with slightly shorter, more modern hair, and that sparkle in her eyes of someone who does what she loves. She wore a denim apron stained with green sap.
-Jasmine!
She came out from behind the counter and ran towards me. I dropped the bag to the floor and fell into her arms.
And there, surrounded by flowers, I broke down.
I didn’t cry beautifully, like in the movies. I cried with hiccups, with snot running down my face, with guttural moans that came from the very depths of my chest. I cried for five years of loneliness. I cried for the foolish girl who married for love and for the broken woman who had just run away.
Nadia said nothing. She just hugged me tightly, rocking me like a child, stroking my dirty hair and murmuring, “It’s over now, you’re here now, it’s over.”
We stayed like that for I don’t know how long. Maybe five minutes, maybe an hour. Until my legs gave out and Nadia led me to the back of the store, to a small inner courtyard filled with ferns and filtered light.
He sat me down in a wrought iron chair.
—I’ll bring you some tea. Linden and orange blossom. You need to calm your nerves.
She returned with two steaming mugs and a plate of cookies. She placed the mug in my hands. The warmth of the ceramic helped me stop trembling.
“Drink,” he ordered.
I obeyed. The tea was sweet and hot. I felt it slide down my throat, thawing my insides.
“Now then,” Nadia said, sitting down across from me and taking my hand. “Tell me everything. In detail. I want to know exactly what that bastard did.”
I took a deep breath. I took out my cell phone.
—I’m not just going to tell you, Nadia. I’m going to show you.
I opened the photo gallery. I handed him the phone.
Nadia slid her finger across the screen. Her expression shifted from concern to disbelief, and then to a fury that hardened her features.
“Eight hundred thousand pesos?” he whispered. “Did he transfer eight hundred thousand pesos to that useless Tomás?”
—Two months ago. Right when he told me we couldn’t pay for my car repairs because we were “in the red.”
“You damn liar!” Nadia slammed her fist on the table. “And the policy! Look at this, Jazmín. ‘To prevent J. from fighting.’ He planned it. This isn’t an accident, it’s premeditated. It’s pure and simple economic violence.”
—I know. That’s why I left. If I had stayed one more day… I think I was capable of killing him. Or of dying myself.
Nadia returned my cell phone as if it were a sacred object.
—You did the right thing. Listen to me, Jasmine. What you did today is the bravest act of your life. Many people stay. They stay out of fear, out of habit, because of what others will say. You left.
“I feel… I feel dirty, Nadia. I feel used. I spent five years wiping his ass, putting up with his humiliations, thinking it was my duty as a wife. And he laughed at me with his friends.”
“You’re not dirty. You’re noble. You have too big a heart, and he took advantage of that. He’s a predator. He saw an empathetic woman and made her his prey. But he chose the wrong victim.”
Nadia got up.
—Look, I have my apartment above the store. The guest room is small, but the bed is comfortable and it has a window overlooking the street. It’s yours for as long as you need. Weeks, months, whatever.
“I don’t want to be a burden. I have no money, Nadia. I have three thousand pesos in cash and my debit card is jointly linked with his; he’ll probably cancel it today.”
“You’re not a burden, you’re my sister. And don’t worry about money right now. Here at the flower shop, I always need extra hands. You have good taste, you learn quickly. You can help me with the arrangements, with the orders. I’ll pay your salary, give you room and board. And in the meantime…”
Nadia took a business card out of her apron pocket.
—Meanwhile, let’s go see this woman.
I read the card: Attorney Talia Treviño. Family Lawyer. Specialist in Women’s Rights and Property Violence.
—Is it good?
“She’s a shark. She divorced my cousin Sofia from that jerk who beat her and left him without his underwear. She hates men like David. She’s going to love your case, especially with those photos. Those photos are pure gold, Jazmín.”
I leaned back in the chair. For the first time that day, I felt like I could breathe without pain.
—Thank you, Nadia. I don’t know how to repay you.
—Pay me back by being yourself again. I miss the Jasmine who laughed out loud. I miss the Jasmine who dreamed of writing books. That woman is still in there, she’s just a little crushed under tons of diapers and medicine.
That afternoon, I settled into the upstairs room. It was simple. White walls, a patchwork quilt in various colors, a bedside table with a warm lamp. I opened the window and the sounds of the street drifted in: organ grinder music and children’s laughter.
I took my clothes out of the bag and put them in the empty drawers. I put my document folder under the mattress, out of old habit, even though I knew it was safe here.
At 6:00 PM, my cell phone started ringing.
Incoming call: Home.
I let it ring.
Incoming call: David Cell phone.
I let it ring.
Message from Tomás: “Hey, where are you? My dad is hungry and nothing’s been done. Answer me, you crazy bitch.”
I read the message and felt a pang of fear, a conditioned reflex. But then I looked around. I was in a safe house. No one was yelling at me. It smelled of flowers, not sickness.
I turned off my cell phone.
That night, Nadia came upstairs with pizzas and beers.
—Let’s toast— he said, opening two Victoria beers. —To freedom.
We clinked bottles together. The first sip tasted heavenly.
“What do you think they’re doing?” I asked, unable to help myself.
“Probably hating each other,” Nadia laughed. “Tomás is going to realize that caring for a paraplegic isn’t ‘just sitting around watching TV.’ And David is going to realize that his ‘free maid’ was the invisible driving force of his life. They’re going to tear each other apart, my friend. And you’ll be watching the spectacle from the front row, but with a safety barrier.”
Nadia was right. The house in Coyoacán must be chaos right now. I imagined David yelling because he needed to go to the bathroom, and Tomás, not knowing how to move him, disgusted and angry. Poetic justice was beginning to take its course.
I went to bed early that night. Nadia’s bed smelled of lavender. At first, I had trouble falling asleep. My body missed the tension, the constant alertness. I waited for the shout. I waited for the doorbell.
But all I heard was the wind moving the bougainvillea leaves outside.
I closed my eyes. And I dreamed. I didn’t dream of hospitals, or wheelchairs. I dreamed I was walking through a field of giant sunflowers, and I was wearing a yellow dress, and my hands were clean, and my pockets were full of money I had earned myself.
When I woke up the next morning, I didn’t cry. I just smiled. The storm had changed direction. Now it was blowing in my favor.
Waking up that morning was an out-of-body experience.
I open my eyes expecting to see the damp ceiling of the house in Coyoacán. I expect the smell of confinement, of medicine and old age. I expect the shout: “Jazmín, the water!” But there are no shouts. There is only silence and a soft, amber light filtering through the curtains of Nadia’s guest room.
I lie motionless under the covers, my heart pounding a mile a minute, a victim of phantom limb syndrome, but applied to slavery. My body is tense, ready to leap out of bed and rush to clean, to cook, to serve. It takes me a full five minutes to convince my muscles that there’s no emergency. That no one is urinating. That no one is hungry. That I am free.
I get up and go to the bathroom. When I look in the mirror, I notice something has changed. The dark circles are still there, black as coal, but the tension in my jaw has eased a little. I wash my face with a lavender soap that Nadia left for me. It smells luxurious. It smells like something I didn’t deserve 24 hours ago.
I go down to the apartment’s kitchen. Nadia is already there, dressed in her work clothes, making coffee in a French press.
“Good morning, fugitive,” she greets me with a bright smile, handing me a mug. “How did you sleep?”
—Like a log. And then I woke up scared because I thought I’d missed David’s medicine time.
Nadia shakes her head and places a plate of red chilaquiles in front of me. They have fresh cheese, cream, and red onion. They look glorious.
“That’s called post-traumatic stress, my friend. It’ll last a while. But it goes away. Eat this, you need strength. Today’s the day.”
—D-Day?
—Demand Day. Defense Day. “Kick ’em off” Day. I have an appointment with Talia at 11:00 AM in her office in Roma. So eat breakfast quickly, shower, and put on something that makes you feel powerful.
—I didn’t bring “power” clothes, Nadia. I brought jeans and t-shirts.
Nadia looks me up and down, assessing me.
“Don’t worry. I have a navy blazer that will look perfect on you. And some low-heeled shoes. Image matters, Jasmine. When you walk into that office, you won’t walk in as the victim; you’ll walk in as the client.”
The offices of “Talia & Hartwell Abogados” were located in a restored old house on Chihuahua Street, in the Roma Norte neighborhood. Nothing like David’s run-down house. This place screamed success. Polished wood floors, modern art on the walls, quiet air conditioning, and a subtle scent of expensive coffee and leather.
The receptionist, a young girl with thick-rimmed glasses, announced us.
—Attorney Treviño is expecting you. Please come in.
We entered the main office. Behind an enormous glass desk, she stood. Talia Treviño.
If Nadia was warmth and earth, Talia was steel and cold fire. She was in her mid-forties, with black hair cut in a flawless asymmetrical bob, and a gaze that I felt could scan my soul and bank account in two seconds. She wore a pearl-gray pantsuit and understated but unmistakably authentic jewelry.
He stood up and extended his hand. His handshake was firm and dry.
—Jasmine. Nadia gave me a quick summary over the phone, but I need the details. All of them. Sit down.
I sat down in a designer chair that was surprisingly comfortable. Nadia sat next to me, my emotional bodyguard.
“I don’t have much money to pay your fees, lawyer…” I began, feeling embarrassment rise to my neck.
Talia raised a hand, stopping me in my tracks.
“First rule, Jasmine: Don’t talk about money before you know if you have a case. If the case is good, the money will come from the case itself. Nadia is my friend, and I trust her judgment. If she says you’re being ripped off, I believe her. But I need proof. Tell me your story. From the beginning. And don’t leave anything out, no matter how embarrassing it might seem. I’m your lawyer, not your confessor. I’m not going to judge you, I’m going to defend you.”
I took a deep breath. And I began to speak.
I spoke for forty minutes. I told him about the accident. About how I quit my job as a proofreader. About how David grew bitter. About the daily humiliations. About Tomás and his contempt. And finally, about the conversation in the hospital and the discovery in the studio.
Talia listened silently, taking quick notes in a Moleskine notebook with a fountain pen. Her face was inscrutable, a perfect poker mask. Only occasionally did she nod or frown slightly.
When I got to the part about the found documents, I stopped.
“Take pictures,” I said, pulling out my cell phone. “Of everything.”
Talia put down the pen and held out her hand.
-Let me see.
I handed her the phone. She started swiping through the photos, zooming in on the details. For the first time, I saw a reaction on her face. A raised eyebrow. A predatory half-smile.
—Interesting… —he murmured—. Very interesting.
“What?” I asked nervously.
Talia placed her cell phone on the desk and interlaced her fingers.
—Jasmine, tell me something. Under what regime did you get married?
“Separation of assets,” I said, lowering my head. “David insisted. He said it was only fair because the house was inherited from his first wife and he had his own businesses. I agreed because… well, because I loved him and didn’t want him to think I was after his money.”
Talia let out a short, humorless laugh.
—The old trick. “If you love me, sign here.” Listen, a prenuptial agreement is a contract, yes. But in Mexico City and most states, there’s something called Economic Compensation.
He leaned forward, staring intently into my eyes.
—The Civil Code establishes that, even if they are married under a separation of property regime, if one of the spouses dedicated themselves primarily to the home and the care of the family, sacrificing their professional development, they are entitled to compensation of up to 50% of the assets that the other spouse has acquired during the marriage.
—But the house was already yours before —I said.
—The house, yes. But what about the bank accounts? The investments? The increase in the value of his assets? The money he earned while you were wiping his ass and managing his life so he could “work” or simply exist? That 1.2 million pesos in the account… that was generated during the marriage, right?
—Yes. It comes from his commissions and the disability insurance he receives monthly, which he saves because I pay for groceries with what little I earn.
—Exactly. He capitalized on your unpaid labor. You subsidized him. And that, my dear, comes at a price.
Talia picked up her cell phone again and pointed to the photo of the transfer to Tomás.
—And this… this is the crown jewel. Transfer of 800,000 pesos, description “donation”. Date: two months ago.
—Is it illegal to donate to your child?
“It’s not illegal per se. But doing it right when the relationship is deteriorating, and hiding it, and leaving you financially insolvent… that’s called marital property fraud and financial abuse. He’s dissipating assets to reduce the pool of potential compensation you could claim. It’s textbook. A family court judge is going to see this and be horrified.”
I felt immense relief. I wasn’t crazy. I wasn’t being greedy. I had rights.
“Furthermore,” Talia continued, a dangerous glint in her eyes, “I see notes here about ‘avoiding probate.’ Mr. David thinks he’s very clever. But he made a rookie mistake.”
-Which?
—The money came from an account where income is also deposited that he probably hasn’t properly declared to the tax authorities. If we dig a little deeper, I’d bet my degree that David has been receiving under-the-table payments or deducting medical expenses that you paid in cash. If we threaten him with a tax audit… believe me, he’ll turn pale.
Nadia burst out laughing.
—I told you she was a shark.
Talia smiled, satisfied.
—Jazmín, this is what we’re going to do. We’re not going to ask for a divorce amicably. We’re going to sue. We’re going to request a restraining order.
-What’s that?
“We’re going to ask the judge to freeze his accounts. Immediately. Before he’s even served with the lawsuit. We’re going to present these photos as proof that there’s an imminent risk he’ll squander the family assets. If the judge sees this transfer of 800,000 pesos, he’ll block everything to ensure your future compensation.”
“Block his accounts?” I imagined David trying to pay for something and having his card declined. It scared me, but also gave me a dark satisfaction. “Is he going to run out of money?”
“He’s going to lose access to big capital. He’ll have the bare necessities to eat, if the judge allows it. But we’re going to cut off his cash flow. And that’s when he’ll come crying to negotiate.”
—But he has Tomás…
“Tomás is a spoiled 22-year-old who blows money on parties. He’s probably already spent those 800,000 pesos or mismanaged them. When we cut off the money, Tomás will be the first to jump ship.”
Talia opened a drawer and took out a contract.
—Sign here. This is a Power of Attorney for litigation and debt collection. You authorize me to represent you. My fees will be a percentage of what we recover. If you don’t win, I don’t get paid. But we’re going to win.
I picked up the pen. My hand trembled slightly, not from fear, but from the magnitude of the step I was taking. By signing “Jazmín R.,” I ceased to be the wife. I became the plaintiff.
—Now —said Talia, putting the contract away—, I need you to turn on your cell phone.
I tensed up.
—Do I have to do it?
—Yes. We need to see what he’s done. Every message, every call, every insult is evidence of psychological violence. I need to document the hostile environment you fled to justify leaving the marital home and prevent you from being accused of “abandonment of the home.”
I took the phone out of my bag. I pressed the power button. The screen lit up.
For a minute, the phone vibrated nonstop. Buzz. Buzz. Buzz. It was like it was having a seizure.
35 missed calls from “Husband”.
12 missed calls from “Tomás”.
4 calls from an unknown number (probably a neighbor or relative).
50 WhatsApp messages.
“Put it on speakerphone if there are voice messages,” Talia ordered, pulling out a digital audio recorder for backup.
I opened my voicemail.
Message 1 (10:30 AM):
“Jasmine, where the hell are you? It’s almost eleven. I’m hungry. I dropped the remote and I can’t reach it. Stop playing and come here. This isn’t funny.”
Talia noted: Control and rigor.
Message 2 (12:15 PM):
“I saw you took some clothes. Did you leave? Did you abandon me here? You’re a heartless woman, Jazmín. After everything I did for you. I gave you a roof over my head, I gave you a life. If you don’t come back in an hour, I’m going to call the police. I’m going to report you for theft. I know you took money from the jar in the kitchen.”
Talia raised an eyebrow.
“Did you take any money?”
—Three thousand pesos that I saved myself from the exchange rate at the market—I said, embarrassed.
—It’s household money. It’s yours. Empty threat. Next.
Message 3 (2:40 PM):
(Tomás’s voice) “Hey, you crazy bitch. My dad is really sick. He has high blood pressure. If he dies, it’s your fault, you hear? Your fucking fault. You’re a murderer. Come back and fix this, or I swear I’ll find you and beat the shit out of you.”
Nadia gasped.
“That’s a direct death threat.”
Talia smiled coldly.
“Perfect. Tomás just gave us a restraining order. Go on.”
Message 4 (8:00 PM):
(David’s voice, this time tearful, slurring his words, perhaps due to the effects of the pills or alcohol) “Jasmine… baby… forgive me. I didn’t mean to yell at you. I’m scared. Tomás doesn’t know how to put the catheter in. He hurt me. I’m bleeding a little. Please come back. I promise I’ll change. I’ll buy you the new car. I’ll give you anything you want. But don’t leave me alone with him. He doesn’t know how to take care of me. I need you.”
This message hit me hard. I felt a pang in my chest. The image of him bleeding, neglected by his useless son. Guilt, that old toxic friend, reared its head. “He needs me.”
Talia must have seen my face, because she slammed her palm on the table, breaking the spell.
“No!” she said in an authoritative voice. “Don’t you dare feel sorry for him, Jasmine. Listen carefully to what he says. He doesn’t say ‘I love you.’ He doesn’t say ‘I miss you.’ He says ‘Tomás doesn’t know how to take care of me,’ ‘he hurt me.’ He doesn’t love you; he wants the competent nurse. He wants you to solve the problem he created himself by raising a useless child and being a tyrannical husband.”
“He’s bleeding…” I murmured.
“If she’s bleeding, she should call an ambulance. She has money, doesn’t she? She has a million in the bank. She can afford a private nurse. You’re not the only person in the world who can insert a catheter. He made you believe that to enslave you. Don’t fall into the manipulator’s trap. First he insults you, then he threatens you, and when he sees that’s not working, he plays the victim to elicit pity. It’s the Cycle of Violence.”
I took a deep breath, swallowing my guilt. Talia was right. If I went back now, nothing would change. It would only prove to her that her tactics work.
“What do we do now?” I asked.
—Now, let’s draft the lawsuit. You’re going to go with Nadia and turn off that phone. Get a new SIM card, a number they don’t have. I’ll take care of the notifications. We’ll file the document with the Family Court tomorrow.
Talia stood up, ending the session.
—Jazmín, one more thing. Be prepared. Because when we freeze his accounts and he receives the lawsuit, the beast will truly awaken. He’ll try to defame you, he’ll say you’re a thief, an adulteress, whatever. You have to have thick skin.
“I already have thick skin,” I said, standing up and smoothing down the borrowed blazer. “Five years of calluses protect me.”
—Good. Welcome to the war.
We left the office. The afternoon sun in Colonia Roma was warm and golden. We walked to a nearby park to sit for a moment before returning to the car.
I felt exhausted, as if I had run a marathon, but also strangely light.
“See?” Nadia said, putting an arm around my shoulders. “You’re not alone. You have an army. Talia is the heavy artillery, I’m logistics, and you… you’re the commander.”
I looked around. People walking their dogs, couples holding hands, office workers eating sandwiches on benches. Life was so normal for them all. And soon, maybe, it would be normal for me too.
Suddenly, my phone (which I had turned back on just to check the time) vibrated with a different notification. It wasn’t a direct message. It was a Facebook notification.
Tomás R. has tagged you in a post.
I felt a chill in my stomach.
—Nadia… look at this.
I opened the app. There it was. A picture of David in his wheelchair, looking extremely distressed, his eyes watering, in what appeared to be a messy living room.
The text read:
“It’s unbelievable how heartless some people are. My stepmother, Jazmín, abandoned my father today. He’s a disabled and defenseless man, leaving him without food or medicine. She stole money and his car. My dad is having a nervous breakdown. If anyone sees her, please tell her to have some decency. It’s wrong to take advantage of good people. #JusticeForDavid #GoldDigger”
It already had 50 “likes” and comments from Tomás’s aunts and friends.
“What a lowlife!”
“She was always a social climber.”
“Poor David, he can count on us.”
My hands started trembling again. Public shame. Ridicule.
“You damned brat!” exclaimed Nadia, reading over my shoulder. “He’s turning history on its head!”
—They’re going to believe him… everyone’s going to believe him. He’s in the wheelchair. I’m the one who left. I’m left looking like the monster.
Nadia took my phone and locked it.
“No. You’re not going to read that. Listen to me, Jasmine. This is what Talia said. Slander. We’ll show this to her tomorrow. This only proves her malice.”
—But the people… my family in Veracruz…
—Your family knows you. And to the people who comment on Facebook without knowing anything, they can go to hell. You don’t live off their likes. You live off your truth.
—It hurts, Nadia. It hurts that they lie like that.
—Of course it hurts. But you know what would hurt more? Being there, in that house, cleaning up Tomás’s mess while he writes that post on his iPhone, sitting on the couch you paid for. You’re out. Let them bark. It’s a sign we’re moving forward.
We returned to Coyoacán in silence. But my mind wasn’t still. I was processing the transformation. David and Tomás had declared media war. They wanted to destroy me socially to force me to return with my head down.
But they miscalculated. By exposing me, they took away my last fear: the fear of “what people would say.” They were already saying it. I was already the “villain.” And strangely enough, being the villain gave me a freedom that the “good wife” never had.
If I’m already the villain of the story… then I can act like one.
That night, before going to sleep, I wrote my first entry in a notebook Nadia gave me. It wasn’t a journal of sadness. It was a war journal.
Day 1 of Freedom.
Bank balance: $3,000 pesos.
Emotional balance: Bankrupt, but restructuring.
Goal: For David to pay back every penny. For Tomás to learn to work. For me to get my name back.
I turned off the light. And for the first time, I didn’t pray for patience. I prayed for justice. And I knew that God, or the Universe, or whoever listens to weary women, was taking note.
We were filing the lawsuit tomorrow. Tomorrow, the ice would begin to break beneath the wheels of David’s chair.
The Family Court building in Mexico City, near Avenida Juárez, smells of three things: hot photocopies, fried street food from vendors outside, and human desperation. It’s a heavy smell, a mixture of cold sweat and bureaucracy that clings to your clothes.
There I was, standing next to Talia, feeling small among the crowd of lawyers in shiny suits with folders under their arms, and women with crying children in their laps waiting for a pension that never comes.
“Lift your head, Jasmine,” Talia whispered in my ear, her voice sharp as a scalpel. “You didn’t come here to ask for a favor. You came here to demand what’s yours. Here, whoever lowers their gaze, loses.”
Talia moved through the courthouse hallways as if she owned the place. She greeted the court clerks with a strategic familiarity, smiled at the archivists, and glared with the opposing party. We filed the initial petition: No-Fault Divorce with a request for Economic Compensation and Protective Measures for Domestic Violence.
The term sounded elegant. The reality was brutal: we were asking the judge to freeze David’s money before he could hide it any longer.
“How long will it take?” I asked, as we stepped out into the sweltering midday heat.
“The judge on duty is strict, but fair. With the evidence of the transfer to Tomás and the insurance policy, we’re going to prove there’s a ‘well-founded fear’ of asset concealment. If everything goes well, by Friday his cards will be worthless pieces of plastic.”
Friday. Two days to go.
—And in the meantime?
—Meanwhile, you stay invisible. Don’t answer calls. Don’t go on social media. Let Tomás throw his tantrum on Facebook. Every insult he posts is another nail in his legal coffin.
The next two days in Nadia’s apartment were a strange mix of peace and underlying anxiety. I felt like a soldier in a trench waiting for the bombardment.
I helped out at the flower shop “Petals and Purpose” to earn my living. I quickly learned to clean roses, remove the thorns, and cut the stems diagonally so they would absorb water better. There was something therapeutic about working with flowers. They didn’t scream. They didn’t demand. They only needed water and light to be beautiful.
“You have a knack for this,” Nadia told me Thursday afternoon, as we were putting together centerpieces for a wedding. “This arrangement turned out better than mine. You have an eye for color.”
—It’s just putting flowers together, Nadia.
—No. It’s about knowing which flowers complement each other and which ones overshadow each other. Just like with people, my friend. You were with a cactus that pricked you and drained your water. Now you’re blooming.
I smiled, but my smile didn’t reach my eyes. My mind was elsewhere. I was thinking about the house in Coyoacán.
Who would be feeding him?
Who would be changing his pressure ulcer dressings?
Had Tomás learned to use the hoist to move him?
Guilt is a persistent beast. Despite all the hatred, despite the financial betrayal, five years of caring for someone creates a perverse bond. I worried he would die. Not because I loved him, but because if he died from neglect, a part of me—the “helpful” and “obedient” part—would feel it was my fault.
“Stop thinking about him,” Nadia scolded me, as if reading my mind. “If he’s hungry, he can order Uber Eats. He has a million pesos in the bank, remember? He can buy the whole restaurant if he wants.”
Friday arrived. Financial D-Day.
I was sweeping the entrance to the flower shop when my new cell phone (the one only Nadia and Talia had) rang. It was Talia.
“It’s done,” he said, without saying hello. “The judge granted the precautionary measure. The official notices were sent to the National Banking and Securities Commission today at 9:00 AM. The banks should have already received the blocking notification. Your personal and joint accounts are frozen until you declare your true assets.”
I felt a chill.
—Everything? Can’t you take anything?
—The judge usually releases a small amount for subsistence if he requests it through an injunction, but that takes days or weeks. For now, David has nothing. And the best part: a precautionary seizure order was also issued for Tomás’s account, where the 800,000 pesos ended up, under suspicion of fraud.
—Tomás is going to go crazy.
“That’s the idea, Jasmine. Shake them until the coins fall out. Be prepared. If before they were looking for you to clean again, now they’ll be looking for you to unlock the money. Don’t give in. Not an inch.”
I hung up. I looked at the sky. It looked just as blue, but something in the air had changed. The balance of power had been reversed.
Meanwhile, at the House of Discord (Reconstruction based on later events):
David was in his study, in front of the computer. It was 11:30 AM. He had been living through hell for three days. The house was a pigsty. Tomás had hired a “cheap” nurse who came for two hours a day just to bathe and change him, but the rest of the day David was alone.
The nurse, a woman named Doña Chuy, lacked Jazmín’s gentleness. She scrubbed him roughly, left the water too cold, and didn’t prepare his special meals without salt.
“Tomás!” David shouted. “I’m hungry! Order something!”
Tomás came downstairs in his underwear, scratching his belly.
—I’m coming, Dad. What do you want? Sushi or hamburgers?
—Sushi. The expensive kind. The kind your Aunt Alexis likes. And order some for herself too, she said she came to visit us to see how we “fixed the whole thing with crazy Jazmín.”
—And.
Tomás took out his iPhone, opened the delivery app, and placed the order. 1,500 pesos worth of sushi rolls and kushiage. He tapped “Pay.”
The little load wheel turned. Turned. And turned.
PAYMENT ERROR. CARD DECLINED.
“What the hell…” Tomás muttered. “Hey, Dad. Your card isn’t working. It says declined.”
—Impossible. It’s the Platinum plan. It has a credit limit of 200,000. Try again. It’s probably the app that’s malfunctioning.
Tomás tried again.
TRANSACTION DENIED. CONTACT YOUR BANK.
—Nothing. Nothing’s happening.
“Use yours, then I’ll transfer it to you,” David said impatiently. “I’m starving.”
Tomás used his debit card, the one where he had saved the 800,000 pesos (or what was left of them after buying clothes and treating his friends).
TRANSACTION DENIED. ACCOUNT BLOCKED OR FROZEN.
Thomas turned pale.
—Dad… mine isn’t going through either. It says “Account Frozen.”
“What?” David felt a sharp pain in his chest, not cardiac, but visceral. “Okay, bring me the laptop. Log into the bank’s website.”
They logged into Online Banking. They entered their password.
The welcome screen loaded, but instead of showing the usual balances, a flashing red box appeared at the top:
ATTENTION: ACCOUNTS WITHHELD BY COURT ORDER. CASE FILE 458/202X. 12TH FAMILY COURT, CDMX.
Available Balance: $0.00.
David stared at the screen. The red letters were reflected in his eyes. He couldn’t breathe.
“What does this mean?” shouted Tomás, throwing his cell phone onto the sofa. “Why does it say ‘court order’? What did you do, Dad?”
“I didn’t do anything…” David whispered, and then the realization hit him like a freight train. “It was her. It was Jasmine.”
“The cat?” Tomás laughed hysterically. “Jasmine? Please, Dad. She doesn’t even know how to turn on the computer properly. She’s a fool. She doesn’t have the guts to do this.”
“We underestimated her,” David said, his voice trembling with cold fury. “The damned thing froze us dry. She left us high and dry, Tomás. We can’t even buy a bottle of water.”
—Well, do something! Call the lawyer! Unblock it! It’s MY money!
“Shut up!” David roared. “It’s not your money, it’s MY money that I gave you! And now, because of you, because you were bragging on Facebook, they’ve probably tracked us down! Give me the phone!”
David dialed Jasmine’s number.
Voicemail.
He dialed again.
Voicemail.
He threw the phone against the wall. The device bounced but did not break.
“She’s dead to me,” David gasped, his face turning purple. “I’m going to destroy her.”
But deep down, in that dark place where real fear dwells, David knew that the destruction had already begun, and it wasn’t hers.
Back with Jasmine:
That afternoon, Nadia convinced me to go to a meeting.
“There’s a group,” she told me. “It’s called ‘Second Dawn.’ They meet on Zoom on Fridays, but once a month they meet in person at a community center here in Coyoacán. Today’s meeting is in person.”
—Nadia, I’m not into self-help groups where we hold hands and sing Kumbaya.
—That’s not it. They’re women. Women who’ve been through shitty divorces, widows who discovered double lives, girls who got out of narcissistic relationships. You need to hear that you’re not the only stupid one who trusted the wrong man.
Reluctantly, I agreed.
The place was a simple room in the House of Culture. There were about ten women sitting in a circle on plastic chairs. There was coffee brewed in a pot and Maria cookies.
I sat in a corner, trying to make myself small.
The coordinator, an older woman named Sandra, with gray hair and a smile that conveyed infinite peace, began the session.
—Welcome everyone. We have a new face today. Would you like to introduce yourself? Just your name and why you’re here. If you’d like.
I felt their gazes. They weren’t judgmental stares, like those of David’s family. They were looks of gentle curiosity, of empathy.
“My name is Jasmine,” I said, my voice coming out hoarse. “And I’m here because… because for five years I was my husband’s nurse, his maid, and his mother, and he repaid me by telling his friends I was a ‘free servant’ and stealing my future.”
A murmur of understanding rippled through the room. Several heads nodded.
—Welcome to the “Freebies” club, Jasmine—said a young woman with tattoos on her arms. —I paid for my ex’s medical school. When he graduated, he dumped me for a female doctor because I “wasn’t on his intellectual level anymore.”
—I took care of my mother-in-law for ten years —said another, a woman in her fifties—. When she died, I discovered that the house they promised me was in the name of my husband’s mistress.
I heard story after story. Stories of female sacrifice. Of women who made themselves small so their men could feel big. Of women who gave their time, their money, their youth, and their health in exchange for empty promises.
For the first time, I didn’t feel alone. And more importantly, I didn’t feel stupid. I realized that the system was designed this way. We’re taught to be carers. We’re taught that love is sacrifice. And there are men, emotional predators like David, who sense that willingness and exploit it until you’re completely drained.
—And what did you do, Jasmine? —Sandra asked.
“I sued him,” I said, and as I said it out loud, I felt a new strength. “I froze his accounts today. I left him penniless.”
The room erupted in applause. The women cheered. The tattooed girl raised her fist.
“That’s it, damn it!” he shouted. “Justice!”
That night, I left the meeting feeling lighter than ever. I had a new army. I had Nadia, I had Talia, and now I had “Second Dawn.”
Upon returning to the flower shop, I saw a familiar car parked in front.
It was a red Mazda. Alexis’s car, David’s sister.
I froze on the sidewalk. Alexis was standing in front of the closed door of the flower shop, ringing the bell insistently. Nadia had gone out to buy dinner, so there was no one there.
Alexis saw me.
She was a tall, thin woman who always wore designer clothes and looked at me as if I were a stain on her Ferragamo shoe. She walked toward me, her heels clicking heavily on the sidewalk.
“You!” she shouted, pointing a manicured finger at me. “You wretch!”
“Good evening, Alexis,” I said, keeping my distance.
“What good night? What did you do to my brother? He called me crying. Crying, Jazmín! He says they don’t even have enough money for food. That you blocked them on everything.”
—They have food in the pantry. And if not, they should sell some. They have plenty of things.
“You’re a viper!” Alexis stepped closer, his face contorted with anger. “David is a sick man. He’s disabled. How dare you leave him like this? That’s inhumane!”
“Inhuman,” I repeated the word, savoring it. “Inhuman is telling your friends your wife is a free servant. Inhuman is transferring 800,000 pesos to your son to leave your wife destitute. Inhuman is canceling my life insurance policy after five years of cleaning up your brother’s mess. Doesn’t that seem inhuman to you, Alexis?”
Alexis blinked. She seemed surprised that I answered her. The Jasmine she knew lowered her head.
—That… that’s a couple’s business. He was protecting Tomás’s inheritance. He’s his son.
—And I was his wife. I was.
“Look, girl. Unlock those accounts right now, or I swear you’ll regret it. My family has connections. We know people. We’re going to put you in jail for theft and breach of trust.”
I laughed. It was a genuine laugh, one that came from deep in my gut.
—Jail? Go ahead. Do it. Call your connections. But tell them to bring a good accountant, because when the tax audit my lawyer requested starts, a lot of things are going to come out, Alexis. Things about David’s businesses. Things that might not be entirely clear with the tax authorities. You’re involved in those businesses too, aren’t you? I think I saw your name on some invoices at the office.
Alexis’s face paled beneath her flawless makeup. I was right. David was using his sister to launder money. Talia was right.
“You don’t know who you’re messing with,” he hissed, but his voice had lost its strength. There was fear in his eyes.
—On the contrary, Alexis. You didn’t know who you were messing with. You thought she was the silly maid. It turned out the maid knew how to read.
Alexis looked at me with pure hatred, but took a step back.
—This isn’t over.
—No, it doesn’t end like this. It’s just getting started. Tell David that if he wants to unfreeze his money, he has to talk to my lawyer. I have nothing to say to him.
Alexis turned around, got into his Mazda and drove off, tires screeching.
I stood on the sidewalk, trembling a little from the adrenaline, but feeling invincible.
Nadia arrived with bags of tacos.
“Was that the sister’s witch?” he asked, watching the car drive away.
—Yes. He came to threaten me.
—And what happened?
—I returned her to her cave.
Nadia smiled and passed me a taco.
“That’s my girl. Let’s go to dinner, because tomorrow you have to look for a real job. The flower shop helps, but you need something that will build your resume.”
“I already have a plan,” I said, biting into my taco. “I’m going back to editing. But not cheap freelance work. I’m going to look for big publishing houses. I have experience, I have talent, and now I have a story to tell.”
The weekend went by quickly. On Monday morning, my lawyer Talia called me.
—Jazmín, we have news. David’s lawyer contacted us.
—What are they saying?
—They’re desperate. They’re requesting an urgent conciliation hearing to release funds. They say David needs medicine and to pay the nurse.
—And what did you tell them?
—I told them we’d be happy to negotiate. But on our terms.
—What conditions?
—One: Full acknowledgment of the debt to the marital partnership.
Two: Retroactive alimony for five years of caregiving.
Three: 50% of all assets, including the house, or the equivalent cash value.
Four: A public apology for defamation on social media.
“Will they accept?” I asked, incredulous.
—Not yet. They’re going to kick and scream. But they’re in dire straits, and we hold the tap. Let them suffer a few more days. Let them feel what need is. By the way, did you see Tomás’s Facebook?
—No, I have him blocked.
—Well, unlock it for a second. It’s worth it.
I hung up and, with morbid curiosity, I went to Facebook from Nadia’s flower shop profile.
I looked for Tomás.
Her last post wasn’t an attack. It was a photo of a Maruchan soup on a dirty kitchen table.
The text read:
“Does anyone know where they buy used designer watches? I urgently need to sell a Tag Heuer. DM for info. #Crisis #BadLuck”
I laughed.
The “free maid” was eating tacos and building a new life.
The “heir” was selling his toys to buy instant noodles.
Karma doesn’t just exist. Karma sometimes collects upfront, with late fees.
I closed my computer and opened my resume file.
Jasmine R. Senior Editor.
Experience: Crisis management, managing limited resources, extreme resilience, and the ability to work under hostile pressure.
Yes. That was my new image. And I was ready for the world to see it.
Freedom tastes sweet, but the reality of work tastes like burnt coffee in a government office and “we’ll call you.”
A week had passed since I froze David’s accounts. A week of sleeping peacefully, yes, but also a week of watching my three thousand pesos in savings evaporate on bus fare, photocopies, cell phone credit, and food, even though Nadia insisted on not charging me rent.
I needed a job. And I needed it now.
That Monday I dressed in my best clothes (Nadia’s borrowed blazer and some black pants I’d carefully ironed) and went out to face the Mexico City job market. My target: publishing houses, advertising agencies, magazines. Anywhere they needed someone who knew where to put a comma and how to structure a paragraph.
But I came across a concrete wall called “The Five-Year Hole”.
—Jazmín, Ms. Jazmín—the recruiter from a digital marketing agency in Condesa said to me, a young woman in her early twenties who was chewing gum while reading my CV on a tablet—. I see you have experience in editing, yes… but your last formal job was in 2020. What have you been doing these past five years? There’s a huge gap here.
I felt heat rise to my cheeks. I had rehearsed this response in front of the mirror, but saying it out loud in front of someone who was looking at me skeptically was different.
“I was in charge of caring for a family member with a severe disability,” I replied, trying to sound professional. “It was a full-time job that required administration, logistics, and…”
“Oh, right,” she interrupted, losing interest. “So, you were at home. Unemployed.”
—Not unemployed. Working from home.
—Yes, but I mean real-world experience. Look, the digital world changes every six months. If you haven’t used SEO tools, WordPress, or Trello in five years, you’re obsolete. We’re looking for someone “fresh,” you know? Someone hungry.
“I’ll starve if you don’t hire me,” I thought, but I just nodded.
—I understand. I learn quickly.
—We’ll keep that in mind. Thank you for coming.
I left that office feeling tiny. “Obsolete.” At 30 years old. According to the market, I was an iPhone 4 in a world of iPhone 15s. It worked, yes, but nobody wanted to struggle with my old operating system.
I went through three more interviews that week. The result was the same.
In one, they told me I was overqualified for assistant and underqualified for editor.
In another, they asked if I planned to have children soon because they “didn’t want any more interruptions to my career.”
In the third, the boss looked at my legs more than my resume and offered me a receptionist position with a salary that barely covered my airfare.
I returned to the flower shop on Wednesday afternoon, dragging my feet and my pride.
“Bad day?” asked Nadia, who was watering some Dutch tulips.
—Awful. I’m invisible, Nadia. To the working world, I’m a failed housewife trying to get back in the game. They don’t see my abilities, they see my “slump.”
“It’s not a pothole, it’s a war trench,” Nadia said firmly. “And you survived. Something will work out. In the meantime, new roses have arrived, and we have to remove their thorns. It’s a great stress reliever.”
I put on my apron and got to work. The crack of the fish bones breaking under my fingers was strangely satisfying. I imagined each bone was one of those condescending recruiters. Or David’s face.
Speaking of David, his situation had gone from critical to tragicomic.
The information reached me, as always, indirectly. Talia, my lawyer, had her sources, and gossip spread quickly in the courthouse.
Apparently, David’s lawyer (a certain Licenciado Gordillo, an old-school type who charged cheap fees but played dirty) had tried to file an injunction to release the accounts, citing “humanitarian reasons.” But the judge had slammed the door in his face: “Funds will be released when the defendant presents a true inventory of assets and justifies the transfer of 800,000 pesos to his son.”
In other words: “Tell us where the ball is or there’s no money.”
In the house in Coyoacán, reality was grotesque.
Doña Chuy, the nurse, had resigned on Tuesday.
“No, young man,” she told Tomás at the door. “I get paid a week in advance. If there’s no money, there’s no service. And your father… with all due respect, he’s very rude. He threw my soup at me yesterday. God bless you.”
And he left.
David and Tomás were left alone.
Tomás, the “crown prince,” had to face the biological reality of his father.
“Dad, he smells awful!” Tomás shouted from the hallway, his nose covered with his shirt.
“Well, clean me up, you useless thing!” David replied from his bed, weeping with humiliation and rage. “It’s your duty! I gave you that money! I supported you all your life!”
—It disgusts me! I’m going to vomit!
—Jasmine did it! She never complained!
—Then call Jasmine!
—He’s not answering!
That night, Tomás tried to change his diaper. It was a disaster. David ended up dirty, the bed stained, and Tomás vomiting in the guest bathroom. They ended up sleeping like that, in the filth, with the smell of defeat permeating the walls of the house they so desperately wanted to protect from me.
The next day, David, in a moment of evil lucidity born of despair, called his sister Alexis.
—Alexis, you have to help me.
“I don’t have any cash on hand, David. You know my money is invested in the land in Mérida. I can’t lend you any cash right now.”
“I don’t want money. I want you to destroy her. I want you to make her come here, on her knees.”
—What? You already froze everything for her, she doesn’t care anymore. She has that lawyer.
“Let’s play dirty, Alexis. Remember the Cartier watch my dad gave me? The gold one.”
—Yes, the one you keep in the safe.
—He’s gone now.
—What do you mean he’s not here?
—She disappeared. And coincidentally, she disappeared the day Jazmín left with her bag full of “dirty laundry.”
There was silence on the line. Alexis understood the play instantly.
—Aggravated robbery. Breach of trust. Larger amount. That warrants automatic pretrial detention if handled properly.
“Exactly,” David said, his voice hissing like a snake. “Go to the Public Prosecutor’s Office. File a report. Say you saw her taking things. Say Mom’s watch and some rings are missing. Get the police to come after her. Scare her. Handcuff her if you can. I want to see her humiliated.”
—What if the watch appears?
“He’s not going to show up,” David said. “Because Tomás is going to ‘lose’ him for a while.”
It was a vile plan. A desperate plan. But David was no longer a rational man; he was a cornered beast ready to bite.
On Thursday afternoon, the peace of the flower shop was broken.
I was helping a lady who wanted an anniversary arrangement when I saw the lights. Red and blue lights bouncing off the shop window.
A patrol car from the Mexico City Investigative Police (PDI) double-parked in front of the premises.
My heart stopped. I literally felt it stop beating for a second.
Two officers got out. They weren’t wearing uniforms, but rather tactical vests with the initials PDI on the back and badges hanging around their necks. They looked intimidating, with their weapons on their hips and that “we are the law and you are nothing” attitude.
They entered the flower shop. The little bell rang, but this time it sounded like a panic alarm.
“Good afternoon,” said the tallest agent, a dark-skinned man with a stern face. “We are looking for Jazmín Rodríguez.”
The customer got scared and stepped aside.
Nadia came out of the back room, drying her hands. She turned pale when she saw the officers, but walked toward them with her chin held high.
—Who is looking for her?
—Agents from the Territorial Investigation Prosecutor’s Office in Coyoacán. We have a warrant for your appearance and location. Are you Jazmín Rodríguez?
“I’m Jazmín Rodríguez,” I said, stepping out from behind the counter. My legs were shaking so much I had to lean on the cash register.
The officer looked me up and down.
—Madam, there is a complaint against you for the crime of aggravated theft and breach of trust against Mr. David M. You are accused of stealing high-end jewelry and watches from the marital home on the day you left. You must accompany us to the Public Prosecutor’s Office to give your statement.
“Theft?” My voice came out as a shriek. “I didn’t steal anything. I only took my clothes.”
—She’ll say that to the Public Prosecutor’s Office. We’re only here to notify her and bring her in. If she doesn’t cooperate, we’ll have to use force.
“This is an outrage!” Nadia shouted, stepping between the officers and me. “She’s not going anywhere without her lawyer! You can’t just take her like this! Do you have an arrest warrant?”
“This is a summons, miss. Don’t get all worked up or we’ll take you in too for obstruction of justice,” said the second officer, placing his hand near his weapon.
Fear gripped me. A cold, paralyzing fear. The police in Mexico aren’t known for their kindness or their justice. I knew stories of people who went into the Public Prosecutor’s Office and never came out, or came out with fabricated charges because they didn’t have the money for the bribe.
“I’m going to call my lawyer,” I said, clumsily pulling out my cell phone.
—You have the right to your call. But we’re leaving now. Get in the vehicle.
“She’s not getting on the bus!” Nadia interjected. “I’ll take her. We’re in my car behind you.”
The officer gave her a dirty look, but then shrugged.
—Okay. But if they deviate, we’ll issue a leak alert, and then things will be much worse for them. They have 10 minutes to reach the COY-2 coordination center.
The officers got out and into their patrol car, waiting.
Nadia locked the shop door and put up the “CLOSED” sign. She turned to me. I was hyperventilating.
“They’re going to put me in jail, Nadia. David won. He made up a robbery case against me.”
“Shut up!” Nadia grabbed my shoulders and shook me. “Nobody’s going to jail today! This is a scare tactic! He’s desperate! Call Talia NOW!”
We dialed Talia while we were getting into Nadia’s car.
—Talia, the police are here. They say I stole a Cartier watch. They’re taking me to the Public Prosecutor’s Office in Coyoacán.
Talia’s voice on the other end of the phone didn’t sound scared. It sounded… bored. And that reassured me a little.
—Ah, the classic “jewelry theft” scheme. How predictable your husband is, Jasmine. What a lack of imagination.
—Talia, I’m scared!
—Don’t be afraid. Be brave. Listen carefully: DON’T SAY ANYTHING. Don’t make a statement, don’t sign anything, don’t even accept a glass of water until I arrive. I’ll be there in 20 minutes. I’m on my way. This is a show. If they had real evidence, they would have already arrested you with a warrant. This is just to scare you into unlocking the accounts.
He hung up.
The drive to the Public Prosecutor’s Office was torture. I kept looking at the patrol car in front of us, feeling like a criminal. How had I gone from being the devoted wife to being chased by the police in just one week?
We arrived at the prosecutor’s office. The building was gray, dirty, and crowded. We went inside. The smell of humanity and bureaucracy was ten times worse than in the family courts.
They sat us down on a cold metal bench. The officers went to speak with the public prosecutor’s secretary.
Twenty eternal minutes.
Then I heard the tapping of heels. Quick, firm, authoritative.
Talia walked in as if she owned the building. She was wearing a blood-red suit and dark sunglasses, which she took off as she entered. Behind her came a young man with a laptop.
“Where is my client?” he asked aloud, in a voice that made three secretaries look up.
He saw me and walked towards me.
—Did they say anything to you? Did they touch you?
—No.
—Fine. Let’s put an end to this circus.
Talia went to the Public Prosecutor’s desk, a man with a chronically tired face surrounded by files.
—Attorney, I am the defense attorney for Ms. Jazmín Rodríguez. I’ve come to review the investigation file regarding the alleged theft. And I’m here to present evidence that this is a false accusation intended to exert undue pressure in a related family court case.
The MP looked at her, then looked at his watch.
—Attorney, we have the statements of Mr. David M. and his sister. They say that a gold Cartier watch and a collection of jewelry worth 200,000 pesos are missing. Mrs. Jazmín was the last person to have access to the safe.
“Oh, really?” Talia smiled. A shark-like smile, smelling blood. “And do you have proof that she opened the box? Fingerprints? Videos?”
—It’s circumstantial. She left the day the things “disappeared”.
“Interesting. Very interesting.” Talia turned to her assistant. “Roberto, show the lawyer what we found in the digital investigation an hour ago.”
The assistant opened the laptop and placed it on the MP’s desk.
The screen displayed a screenshot of MercadoLibre and another of Facebook Marketplace.
“Look, sir,” Talia said, pointing at the screen. “This post is from three days ago. User: ‘Tomás_R_99’. Location: Coyoacán.”
The photo in the publication clearly showed a gold Cartier watch on a table that I recognized perfectly: David’s living room coffee table, with a coffee stain in the corner.
Ad title: “Original Cartier watch. Urgent sale. Cash only. Meetup at a central location.”
The prosecutor approached the screen. He squinted.
—And here— Talia continued, relentlessly—, we have another post from the same user selling a lot of antique rings. “Grandma’s jewelry, clearance sale.”
Talia straightened up and looked at the MP.
—My client didn’t steal anything. The complainant’s son, Tomás R., is selling the alleged stolen items online to get cash, probably because his accounts are frozen by order of a family court judge due to financial abuse.
The silence in the office was absolute. The PDI agents looked at each other uncomfortably.
“This, sir,” Talia said, lowering her voice to a dangerously soft tone, “is called making false statements to an authority. And if you proceed with this arrest knowing this, I will file a complaint with Internal Affairs and a report against whoever is responsible for abuse of power and framing someone.”
The public prosecutor swallowed hard. He loosened his tie.
—Okay, okay, lawyer. Calm down. We acted in good faith regarding the gentleman’s complaint. If the son is the one who has the things… well, that changes the situation.
—Everything changes. I want this case closed immediately due to lack of evidence. And I want a certified copy of everything to attach to my family lawsuit. David M. just tried to use the Prosecutor’s Office as his personal enforcer. And that, Attorney, is a crime.
The MP nodded quickly.
—You’re right. Let’s… let’s reassess this. Ms. Jasmine, you may leave. You remain as a witness for now, but there is no arrest.
We left the prosecutor’s office.
As soon as the sun hit my face, my legs gave way. I had to sit down on the bench, trembling.
“Are you okay?” Nadia asked, hugging me.
—I almost died, Nadia. I saw my life flash before my eyes. I saw myself in jail.
Talia lit a cigarette (although she didn’t smoke, she only did so in big victories).
“That was close, Jazmín. They played their strongest card. They tried to break you with fear. But they made the stupid mistake of all: they left a digital footprint. Tomás is such an idiot that he put the jewelry up for sale using his own user profile. He didn’t even create a fake account.”
I laughed. A nervous laugh, on the verge of tears.
—Tomás… always wanting easy money.
“Now we have them,” Talia said, exhaling a puff of smoke. “Now it’s not just property violence. Now it’s attempted framing and making false statements. Tomorrow I’m going to ask the judge to revoke any possibility of unfreezing the accounts, and I’m going to request the use of force to evict Tomás from the house if he continues selling assets that are part of the marital property.”
—Evict him?
“He’s squandering the family estate. Selling the jewelry that’s also yours (through marital property or compensation). A judge will see it as looting. Jasmine, you’ve just won the war. They shot themselves in the foot.”
We went back to the apartment. That night, we ordered pizza.
But something in me had definitely changed. The fear of the police, the fear of authority, had transformed into something else: certainty.
I realized that David was a giant with feet of clay. All his power came from money and intimidation. Without money and without fear, he was just a sad man in a dirty bed, dependent on a useless son who stole his jewelry to sell online.
The next day, I received a call. It was an unknown number. I answered, thinking it was Talia.
-Well?
—Mrs. Jazmín Rodríguez? —It was a woman’s voice, professional, friendly.
—Yes, it’s me.
—I’m referring to the publishing house “Letras Vivas.” Ms. Treviño contacted us. It turns out she’s our corporate legal advisor. She mentioned that you’re looking for a job and sent us your resume… with some “notes” about your crisis management skills and ability to work under pressure.
Talia. That wonderful witch. She wasn’t just defending me; she was recommending me.
—Yes, I’m looking.
—We’d like to interview you tomorrow. We have an opening for Editing Coordinator. We’re looking for someone with… character. And Talia says you have plenty of that.
“I’ll be there,” I said, and for the first time in weeks, my smile was real.
I hung up the phone. I looked out the window.
Coyoacán remained the same, with its cobblestone streets and old trees. But not me. I was no longer the servant. Nor the fugitive. Nor the accused.
Tomorrow I had a job interview. Not as David’s victim, but as the protégé of the most feared lawyer in the city.
And somewhere, in a dark and dirty house, David and Tomás were discovering that karma doesn’t have an expiration date, but it does have a payment date.
The “Letras Vivas” publishing house smelled of new paper and freshly brewed coffee, an aroma that, for me, signified hope. The interview was tough, but different from the previous ones. The Editorial Director, a woman named Claudia, didn’t ask me about the “gap” in my resume with disdain. She asked me how I had survived it.
“Talia told me you handled a five-year family crisis all on your own,” Claudia said, reviewing my proofs. “If you can manage the life of a sick person, deal with medical bureaucracy, and still keep your sanity, you can handle closing a monthly magazine. There’s more than enough stress here, Jazmín. We need people who don’t break down at the first sign of trouble.”
“I don’t break, Claudia,” I replied, looking her in the eyes. “I’ve already been broken and rebuilt. Now I’m bulletproof.”
I got the job.
Decent base salary, benefits, and most importantly: my name on the payroll. Jazmín Rodríguez. Not “Mrs. of…”, not “the wife of…”. Just me.
My first check arrived two weeks later. I cried when I saw it. It was 12,000 pesos. It wasn’t a fortune, but it was mine. With that money, I bought a secondhand but good-quality navy blue suit, some comfortable shoes, and paid my share of the groceries at Nadia’s.
She was ready for the next round.
The conciliation hearing was scheduled for a cloudy Tuesday in October.
Talia picked me up from the flower shop in her armored SUV. Nadia gave me a big hug before I got in.
—Give it your all, my friend. And remember: don’t look back, not even to gain momentum.
We arrived at the Family Courts. The atmosphere was tense.
David arrived half an hour late. He came in a private ambulance (probably paid for with the sale of some other piece of jewelry that Tomás “found”). They took him out on a stretcher and then transferred him to his wheelchair.
When I saw him, I almost didn’t recognize him.
He had lost weight. A lot of weight. His skin had a grayish, sallow tone. His beard was long and unkempt, with bits of food stuck in the corners of his lips. He was wearing a shirt that was too big for him and buttoned up badly.
Tomás was pushing the chair. He looked just as bad: dark circles under his eyes, dirty clothes, and the attitude of a beaten dog trying to bite out of fear.
When they saw me, David looked up. His eyes met mine.
I expected to see hatred. I expected to see mockery.
But I saw fear. I saw a man who knew he was defeated.
I, on the other hand, stood next to Talia, in my blue suit, with my makeup and hair done, and my work folder under my arm. I looked healthy. I looked strong.
We entered the courtroom. The judge, a man in his sixties with the face of someone who had witnessed too many family tragedies, indicated that we should sit down.
“We are here for the conciliation hearing in case file 458/202X,” the Judge said. “The plaintiff, Ms. Jazmín Rodríguez, requests dissolution of the marriage, financial compensation, and protective measures. The defendant, Mr. David M., requests… well, the unfreezing of accounts.”
David’s lawyer, Mr. Gordillo, cleared his throat.
—Your Honor, my client is in a precarious situation. He is a person with a severe disability. Ms. Jazmín abandoned him, even taking valuables with her. We request that the funds be released immediately for humanitarian reasons.
Talia stood up.
—Your Honor, Mr. David’s “precarious situation” is self-inflicted. He has sufficient assets that he has attempted to conceal through procedural fraud. And regarding the “abandonment” and “theft,” we have already submitted to this court a copy of the investigation file demonstrating that it was the defendant’s own son, present here today, who was selling the allegedly stolen items on Facebook.
Thomas slumped in his chair. David closed his eyes.
“Furthermore,” Talia continued, “my client didn’t ‘abandon’ her situation. She fled an environment of systematic psychological and economic violence, as evidenced by the text messages and audio recordings already on file. And as for the humanitarian reasons…”
Talia took out a document.
—…my client, in an act of good faith that I frankly advised against, offers to unlock 20% of the monthly funds ONLY IF the divorce and compensation agreement is signed today.
The Judge looked at David.
—Mr. David, what are you saying? Your wife is offering you a lifeline.
David tried to speak, but only a dry cough came out. Tomás handed him a bottle of water. David drank and looked at me.
“Jasmine…” her voice was raspy and weak. “Why are you doing this? I gave you a roof over your head. I gave you…”
“You gave me work, David,” I interrupted. My voice was clear and firm in the silent room. “You gave me work as a nurse, a cook, and a maid. And you never paid me. Not with money, not with respect.”
I took a step closer to the table, ignoring Talia’s gesture for me to stop. I needed to tell her this to her face.
—I heard what you said in the hospital. “Free servant.” “Useful.” “Obedient.” Those were your words, David. Not mine. You broke up the marriage that day. I just signed the death certificate of our relationship.
David lowered his head.
—I was… I was just joking. You say things to friends…
—Jokes have a kernel of truth. And your truth is that you despised me. But I have news for you: the “free maid” now charges. And she charges a lot.
The judge tapped the gavel gently.
—Madam, please address me or your lawyer.
“I’m sorry, Your Honor.” I sat back down.
The negotiation lasted two hours. It was brutal.
Talia demolished every argument David’s lawyer made.
She revealed the hidden accounts.
She showed the fraudulent transfer to Tomás.
She showed the bills for my medical expenses related to stress and migraines.
In the end, David had no choice. If he kept fighting, the trial would drag on for months. Months without money. Months depending on the charity of his sister (who had already abandoned him) or on the ineptitude of Tomás.
“I’ll sign,” David said, his voice breaking. “I’ll sign anything. Just… just release the money to pay for a nurse. Please.”
The agreement was as follows:
Immediate divorce.
Financial compensation: 40% of all liquid assets and properties acquired during the marriage. This included a portion of the investments and the money he tried to hide.
Alimony: $15,000 pesos per month for three years, to “balance the economic imbalance caused by his dedication to the home.”
Repayment of the 800,000 pesos: Tomás had to sign a promissory note acknowledging the debt to the marital estate, committing to repay what remained and pay the rest in installments. (Basically, we indebted Tomás for years.)
We signed.
My signature had never had so much power. Jazmín Rodríguez.
When we left the room, David stopped me for a moment. Tomás had already gone ahead, furious, kicking the ground.
—Jasmine— said David.
I turned around.
-That?
“Who’s going to take care of you?” she asked, in a final attempt to hurt me. “You’re not young anymore. You’re alone. At least I have my son.”
I looked at him and felt… pity. Pure and simple pity.
—David, you don’t have a son. You have a parasite waiting for you to die so he can sell the house. I have myself. And believe me, I like myself a lot.
I turned around and walked down the hallway. The click of my new shoes echoed like music.
That night, Nadia organized a party on the flower shop’s terrace. She invited Talia, Sandra from the support group, and a couple of other friends.
There was wine, there was laughter, and there was music.
“To the free woman!” Talia toasted, raising her glass. “And to my commission, which is going to pay for my vacation in Europe.”
We all laughed.
“Jasmine,” Sandra said, taking my arm. “What are you going to do now? You have money. You have a job. What’s the dream?”
I looked at the city lights from the terrace.
“I want to write,” I said. “I always wanted to write. I stopped because David said it was a waste of time, that it didn’t make any money.”
—Well, now you have time and you have money—Nadia said. —Write. Write your story.
And that’s what I did.
The following months were a whirlwind of activity.
At work, I was promoted rapidly. My organizational skills were impeccable. “If you can handle a narcissistic ex-husband and a lawsuit, you can handle temperamental authors,” my boss would tell me.
I moved from Nadia’s apartment to my own. Small, in the Narvarte neighborhood. I decorated it to my liking. Terracotta-colored walls, lots of plants (a gift from Nadia), and a desk facing the window.
I started a blog. “Broken Vows: Chronicles of an Ex-Maid.”
At first, only my friends read it. Then Talia shared it on her social media. Then it went viral.
Women from all over Mexico wrote to me.
“The same thing happened to me with my dad.”
“My husband tells me I don’t do anything because I’m at home.”
“Thank you for saying what no one else dares to.”
My voice, which had been silenced for five years, now resonated in thousands of throats.
One day, six months after the divorce, I received an email.
From: General Hospital.
Subject: Notification of Patient David M.
My heart skipped a beat. I opened it.
It was an automated notification. David had been admitted with “severe sepsis resulting from infected pressure ulcers.” Bedsores. The dreaded pressure ulcers I had avoided for five years with my night shifts and obsessive care.
Apparently, Tomás and the cheap nurses hadn’t been so careful.
The email ended with: “We have not been able to contact the responsible family member (Tomás R.). You are being notified because you are a secondary contact in the historical file (not updated).”
Tomás wasn’t answering. He was probably out partying or hiding from his creditors. David was alone, rotting away in a public hospital bed (because they’d surely run out of money from their private insurance).
My first instinct, the “Nurse Jasmine” instinct, was to run. To grab the car keys and go save him. “Poor man, he’s suffering.”
I got up from the chair. I grabbed my bag.
But then, I saw my reflection in the entryway mirror.
I saw Jazmín, the editor. The writer. The free woman.
I saw my apartment, clean and peaceful.
If I went, I would fall again. If I went, I would send them the message that, in the end, I’ll always be there to clean up their mess.
I put down the bag.
I sat down in front of the computer.
I replied to the email:
“Mr. David M. is legally divorced from me. His son, Tomás R., is the legal guardian. Please contact the appropriate authorities if there has been patient abandonment. Please remove my email address from your database. Thank you.”
To send.
It was the most difficult and most liberating click of my life.
I didn’t go to the hospital.
That afternoon, I went to have coffee with Nadia and told her.
“Do you feel guilty?” he asked me.
—A little. It’s human to feel sorry. But I don’t feel responsible. That’s the difference. His infection is a result of his choices. He chose Tomás over me. He chose money over care. Now he’s reaping what he sowed.
—Amen, sister— said Nadia.
David survived, but lost a leg to the infection. I found out months later through a mutual acquaintance. He became even more dependent. Tomás, overwhelmed by the debt and the burden, ended up putting him in a run-down nursing home on the outskirts of the city, where the pension barely covered the monthly expenses.
The house in Coyoacán was sold to pay off debts and my share.
When I received my final transfer (40% of the house sale), I looked at the figure in my bank account. It was several zeros.
I could have bought a new car. Or gone to Europe.
But I did something better.
I invested in “Petals and Purpose.” I became Nadia’s partner. We expanded the business. We put a café inside the flower shop, a space where women could come to read, have coffee, and share their stories.
I named the cafe: “The Jasmine Garden”.
And on the main wall, I had a phrase framed:
“Here we don’t serve for free. Here we serve with love, and self-love is the first ingredient.”
Today, I’m sitting in my coffee shop. It smells of roses and freshly ground coffee. I’m 32 years old. I have a few new lines, but they’re from laughing, not crying.
I’m finishing my book. A large publishing house (not mine, another one, so there’s no conflict of interest) offered me a contract to publish my memoirs.
I look through the glass. I see a young couple walk by. The boy shouts something to the girl, and she lowers her head.
I get up, go outside, and touch the girl’s shoulder.
“Hey,” I tell him. “Don’t lower your head. Never lower your head.”
She looks at me, surprised.
-Who are you?
“I’m someone who learned how to pick it up,” I smile at her and give her a card for my support group. “If you ever need to talk, look us up.”
I return to my coffee shop. I sit down at my laptop. I write the last line of my book:
“And so, the servant died so that the queen could be born. I didn’t need a throne, I only needed a suitcase and the courage to walk through the door.”
END
