Miguel and I had been married for seven years. From the very day we tied the knot, I had agreed to live with my mother-in-law, Doña Carmen, a woman who had dealt with a str0ke, was paralyzed on one side, and needed constant care for every meal and every nap. At first, I thought it would be simple: she was my mother-in-law, I was her daughter-in-law, and looking after her was simply my duty.
But I never thought the weight of this responsibility would stretch on for so long—and the hardest part was that it came from the one person who should have shared it with me: my husband, Miguel.
Miguel would go to work during the day, and at night, he would stay glued to his phone. He often said, “You’re better at taking care of Mom than I am. If I try, she’ll suffer more.” I never resented him for that.
I thought it was just how life worked: the wife handles the home, the husband earns a living. But then I explored that Miguel wasn’t just at work—he had someone else.
I stumbled upon a message one day: “I’m coming over tonight again. Being with you is a thousand times better than being at home.” I didn’t scream or cry, didn’t make a scene.
I simply asked quietly, “What about your mother, the one you’ve neglected all these years?” Miguel said nothing. The very next day, he moved out. I knew exactly where he had gone.
I looked at Doña Carmen—the woman who once criticized every bite I ate, every nap I took, who said I was “unworthy of being her daughter-in-law”—and a lump formed in my throat. I wanted to quit everything. But then I reminded myself: a person must always maintain their dignity.
A week later, I called Miguel. “Are you free? I’ll bring your mother over so you can take care of her.”
I packed her medications, hospital records, and an old medical notebook into a cloth bag. That night, I moved her into a wheelchair and said softly, “Mom, I’m going to take you to Miguel’s place for a few days. Staying in the same spot all the time is boring.” She nodded, her eyes sparkling like a child’s.