Miguel and I had been married for seven years. From the very beginning, I agreed to live with his mother, Doña Carmen—a woman left bedridden after a stroke. She was paralyzed on one side, unable to move without help, needing care for everything from meals to medicine.

I thought it would be temporary. I thought it was my duty. But seven years passed, and the weight only grew heavier.

Miguel was absent. He worked during the day, and at night, he glued himself to his phone. If I asked him to help, he always replied, “You’re better at this than I am. If I try, she’ll only suffer.” And I believed him.

I told myself this was marriage: the husband provides, the wife endures.

Until one night, I saw a message on his phone.
“I’m coming over tonight. Being with you is a thousand times better than being at home.”

I didn’t scream. I didn’t cry. I simply asked him:
“And what about your mother—the one you’ve ignored for years?”

He said nothing. The next day, he moved out.

For a week, I thought about everything—my marriage, my sacrifices, the woman I had cared for like my own blood. Doña Carmen had criticized me often, called me unworthy, but I still fed her, bathed her, and sat by her side when she cried.

And then I made my decision.

I called Miguel. “I’ll bring your mother to you,” I said calmly.

That evening, I packed her medicines, hospital records, creams, and diapers into a worn cloth bag. I wheeled her out and whispered gently, “Mom, I’m taking you to Miguel’s place for a few days. You’ll get a change of scenery.”

Her eyes lit up like a child’s. She trusted me.

When we arrived, Miguel opened the door. Behind him stood his lover, dressed in a silk nightgown, her lips painted red.

The air smelled of perfume. Cold, artificial.

I wheeled Doña Carmen inside, adjusted her blanket, placed her bag on the table, and said softly, “Mom is yours. I was only her daughter-in-law. Seven years is enough.”

The woman froze mid-bite, yogurt spoon trembling in her hand.

Miguel’s face went pale. “What… what are you doing?”

I placed a notebook on the table. “Here’s her medical history, the prescriptions, everything written down. I’ve done my part.”

He shouted, “Are you abandoning my mother? That’s cruel!”

I turned, my voice calm but sharp as glass:
“Cruelty? You ignored her for seven years. I cared for her not because of you, but because she is a mother. I’m leaving, not out of revenge—but because I’ve done enough as a human being.”

Then I looked directly at the woman and smiled. “If you love him, love him fully. That means taking on the whole package.”

I laid the house deed on the table. “The house is in my name, but I’m not taking anything. Only her clothes. If you ever need money for her care, call me—I will help.”

Finally, I bent down, stroked Doña Carmen’s hair, and whispered, “Mom, be good here. If you feel lonely, I’ll come visit.”

Her voice trembled. “Yes… come see me when you come home.”

I walked out, closing the door behind me.

That night, I slept without tears, without dreams. The next morning, I took my son to breakfast and began a new chapter of my life.

Not as a wife. Not as a daughter-in-law.
But as a woman free.