My name is Alejandro Montoya, I’m 38 years old, and I work as a supervisor for a construction company in Mexico City. I leave before dawn and return after dark. I’m used to cement, dust, exhaustion, and keeping quiet about a lot of things. I always thought that’s how a family man should be: endure, compromise, solve problems, and not make a scene.
My wife, Mariana, is 33. She used to teach at a kindergarten in Iztapalapa, but she quit when our son, Emiliano, was born. He’s only eight months old now. Since then, she’s been sleep-deprived, with dark circles under her eyes, and the baby is constantly attached to her breast, barely letting her breathe. Even so, she never complained. If I suggested we hire help, she’d just smile and reply, “I can manage a little longer, love. We’d better save up.”
Almost two months ago, my parents arrived from Hidalgo “just for a couple of weeks.” My brother Óscar came with them, supposedly to look for work in the capital. I agreed because they were my family. Mariana just nodded, quietly, as always. And I, foolishly, thought everything would work out.
But it didn’t.
My mother started criticizing how Mariana was taking care of the baby. She said she held him too much, that she was going to spoil him, that in her day women could handle three children and a house. My father demanded his tea at the exact same time. Óscar would yell from the couch, “Mariana, a little coffee,” as if he were in a hotel. Dirty dishes were everywhere, laundry was piling up, and nobody was lifting a finger. When I arrived, Mariana said everything was fine. But I could see her fading away.
That day I left the construction site early because a meeting was canceled. I bought fruit, some baby food for Emiliano, and left thinking I was finally going to help my wife have a peaceful dinner. But before I put the key in the lock, I heard my son crying, that hoarse cry that only comes out when he’s been crying for too long.
I ran inside, and the scene broke my heart.
Mariana was red-faced and sweaty, holding the desperate child in her arms, the soup boiling hot beside her. In the living room, just a few steps away, my mother was watching videos on her phone, my father had the remote control in his hand, and Óscar didn’t even look up.
That’s why I said what I said.
My mother was the first to react.
“Excuse me? Who are you telling to leave?”
Oscar let out a mocking laugh.
