When I returned from the trip, still carrying the smell of the airport on my clothes and my head full of plans to hug my husband, I found the house silent. On the table lay a note in his handwriting—along with my mother-in-law’s: “TAKE CARE OF THIS SENILE OLD WOMAN.”

When I returned from my work trip to Valencia, the apartment in Carabanchel was strangely silent. I dragged my suitcase down the hallway when I noticed a piece of paper taped to the entry cabinet. It was my husband Javier’s tight handwriting, but I also recognized the tone of his mother, Pilar: “TAKE CARE OF THIS SENILE OLD WOMAN.”
No signature. No explanation. Just that sentence, written in blue ink and underlined several times, as if each stroke were a stab. I felt a surge of anger—and something close to shame.

“Grandma Dolores?” I called, raising my voice.

Nothing. The TV was off, the kitchen half-tidied, a glass with traces of milk on the counter. A damp smell drifted from the end of the hallway, from the small room Javier always called “grandma’s little closet.”

I pushed the door open.

Dolores was lying in bed, half propped up on flattened pillows. The sheet was stained, her nightgown clinging to her body. Her skin looked grayish, her lips dry, her eyes open—far too aware for someone they had reduced to a “senile old woman.” A wet rasp shook her chest with every breath.

“God…” I whispered. “Dolores, it’s Lucía. I’m back, okay?”

She blinked with effort and moved her trembling hand, searching for mine. I sat on the edge of the mattress and took it. The smell of urine and cheap medication hit me. I couldn’t help wondering how long they had left her like this.

“Help me…” she whispered, barely a thread of sound. I leaned closer.