I FOUND MY MOTHER KNEELING ON THE MARBLE OF MY OWN MANSION: WHAT MY WIFE FORCED HER TO DO WITH MY CHILDREN ON HER BACK BROKE MY HEART
Silence in a large house isn’t always synonymous with peace; sometimes, it’s the prelude to a stifled scream. I live in La Moraleja, one of the most exclusive areas of Madrid, surrounded by high walls, private security, and a level of luxury that, for years, I thought was the definition of success. But that Tuesday in November, the cold travertine marble in my master bathroom wasn’t the only thing that chilled me to the bone.
Doña Soledad, my mother, a woman who had toiled under the sun in the fields of Extremadura so that I could study, was there. She was on her knees. Her hands, those hands calloused from decades of honest work and rough but loving caresses, were desperately rubbing an invisible stain on the floor. The smell of bleach and ammonia was so strong it burned my throat the moment I inhaled it. But what stopped my heart wasn’t seeing her cleaning. It was seeing what she was carrying.
Tied to her back with an old gray wool shawl, the one she used to knit when I was a child, were my two sons: Santiago and Mateo, barely eight months old. The babies squirmed restlessly, letting out soft whimpers, their weight pressing down on the spine of a seventy-year-old woman who could barely stand.
I had returned early from my business trip to Barcelona. The high-speed train had arrived ahead of schedule, and I wanted to surprise her. The surprise was on me. I stood frozen in the doorway, hidden by the dimness of the hallway, unable to process the horrific scene before my eyes.
“God, give me strength…” my mother whispered, her voice breaking. She tried to stretch to reach a corner behind the toilet, and I saw her face contort in a grimace of absolute pain. A spasm shot through her back.
At that moment, the unmistakable sound of stiletto heels echoed on the wooden floor of the hallway. Click, click, click. Fernanda, my wife, appeared. She was impeccable, as always, dressed in those designer clothes she loved to wear to her social gatherings in the Salamanca neighborhood. She stopped in the doorway, crossed her arms, and looked at my mother not as a mother-in-law, not even as a human being, but as a broken appliance.
“Are you going to stand there whining all day, or are you going to leave that shiny?” Fernanda asked in a tone so icy it cut through the air.
My mother raised her head slightly, her eyes bloodshot from the effort and tears she was holding back.
“I’m… I’m almost finished, Miss Fernanda,” she murmured, looking down. “It’s just… my back hurts so much. The children are heavy…”
Fernanda let out a low laugh, a laugh devoid of any empathy, a laugh I’d never heard before, or perhaps, a laugh I’d chosen to ignore.
“We all have something that hurts, Soledad. The difference lies in who chooses to be strong and who chooses to be a useless burden. Do you want to keep living in this house?” She leaned slightly toward her, invading her personal space. “Then prove you deserve it. We don’t keep old women here who are only good for eating and sleeping. You have a roof over your head and food; earn them. And don’t you dare let go of the children; if they cry, they’ll give me a headache.”
Each word was like a whiplash. My mother swallowed, gripped the sponge with her arthritis-deformed fingers, and resumed scrubbing the floor with a force I didn’t know where she found. The babies started crying louder, uncomfortable with the position and the sudden movement.
“Hang on, daughter, hang on a little longer!” my mother told herself, trembling.
I couldn’t stand it for another second. The suitcase slipped from my hand and fell to the floor with a thud. The noise echoed like a cannon blast in the mansion’s deathly silence.
Fernanda whirled around, her face instantly draining of color. My mother tried to turn, but the weight and the pain prevented her.
I went into the bathroom. I couldn’t feel my legs, only a fire devouring my chest. I took off my suit jacket and threw it on the floor.
“What the hell are you doing to my mother?” My voice came out guttural, unrecognizable, filled with a fury I had never experienced before.
The bathroom fell into absolute silence. Fernanda tried to compose herself, smoothing her blouse with trembling hands.
“Ricardo… love, you’re early. No… it’s not what it looks like.”
I ignored her for a moment. I knelt beside my mother. The smell of chemicals hit my face, mixed with the smell of her cold sweat.
“Mom…” I whispered, my voice breaking. “Mom, please forgive me.”
She lifted her face. Shame was in her eyes. Shame. She, the victim, felt shame.
“Oh, my child… I… I was just helping. Don’t be mad at Fernanda, she just… she gives me things to do so I feel useful.”
“Useful?” I asked, feeling tears sting my eyes. “On my knees?”
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