Light words, yet they weighed like a ton of bricks. Lucía lifted her head and gave Marcos a forced smile that broke my heart. For the rest of the dinner, the conversation returned to their family matters. I didn’t intervene; I simply observed. I watched as Mr. Sánchez was privy to every detail of Marcos’s company, even specific figures. Their conversation seemed more like that of a boss with his subordinate. I observed Mrs. Sánchez’s subtle criticisms of the placement of the silverware, the taste of the food, or the children’s posture.
And above all, I observed how, throughout that time, she appeared as a pretty decorative object, a backdrop, or a well-trained waitress. Her opinion, her feelings, mattered to no one. Only when one of the children made a noise a little louder than usual did all eyes turn to her with silent reproach, and she was always the first to calm or correct the child. This family seemed to revolve around Marcos, but the real puppeteers were his parents, and Lucía and the children were simply part of the perfect family display, expected to remain silent, clean, and follow the rules.
Dinner finally ended. Lucía got up to clear the table. I naturally got up to help her. Mrs. Sánchez glanced at me sideways, but didn’t say anything. We took the plates to the kitchen. Lucía turned on the tap, and the sound of the water drowned out the conversation outside. With her back to me, her shoulders slumped. All the tension she had built up vanished at once. “Sofía, I’m sorry,” she whispered, her voice heavy with weariness and embarrassment. “They talk like that, they don’t mean any harm.”
Don’t take it personally. Don’t worry about me, I left the dishes in the sink. Lucia, do you always live like this? She continued washing up in silence. After a while, she replied, “They don’t come often, only a couple of times a year. It’s just a matter of putting up with it.” I clung to that word. I’ve gotten used to it. She used that word again as if it were her answer to everything bad. In the living room, Mr. Sanchez’s voice could be heard asking Marcos about the progress of some project, mentioning risk management and funding.
Well, Marcos’s answer was a bit vague, but his tone was confident. As I dried the dishes, my mind wandered. Suddenly, a detail popped into my head. The day before at the supermarket, Lucía’s card had no balance. Marcos, being an executive, must have a good salary. Even if he kept an eye on expenses, it wasn’t normal for his wife not to have enough money even for the daily groceries, especially with guests at home. And then there was her nervousness about the folder at the office.
It was all because of the rules, his obsessive control over the family order, his almost cruel demands on his wife, and his parents’ attitude, who dealt with everything, including marriage. Like an inversion, all those loose pieces spun around in my head without forming a complete picture, but a bad feeling was becoming increasingly clear. We finished tidying up and went back to the living room. Mr. and Mrs. Sánchez were leaving. As they said goodbye, Mrs. Sánchez took Lucía’s hand and, in a seemingly affectionate tone, said, “Lucía, we’re so glad to see you taking care of the house and the children too.”
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