I am thirty-four years old. And if someone asked me what my greatest regret is, I wouldn’t say it was the money I lost or the opportunities I missed at work. What weighs heaviest on my heart is something much quieter… much more shameful.
For years, I allowed my wife to suffer inside our own home.
The worst part? It wasn’t because I wanted to hurt her.
Simply… I didn’t see it.
Or maybe I did, but I chose not to think about it too much.
I am the youngest of four siblings—three older sisters, and then me. My father died when I was just a teenager, and since then, my mother, Doña Rosa Ramírez, had to keep the household afloat alone.
My sisters helped a lot, that’s true. They worked, they cared for me, they were there when we needed them most.
Maybe that’s why, from a young age, I got used to them making decisions.
They decided what got fixed in the house, what we bought at the market, even things that should have been mine to decide.
What I should study.
Where I should work.
Who I should meet.
I never complained.
For me… that was simply family.
That’s how I grew up.
And that’s how I lived for many years.
Until I married Lucía.
Lucía Morales is not a scandalous woman. She isn’t loud or demanding. On the contrary, she has always been calm, patient… almost too patient, I realize now.
