“Mom, enough…” he barely said, as if asking her to stop destroying my things were too great a favor.
I looked at him, waiting for something more. A defense. A firm word. A “this is her house too.” But it never came.
Doña Teresa picked up a blue silk blouse.
“Just look at this ridiculous thing. Who do you dress up so much for? To show off my son’s money?”
She tore it in front of me.
Then something inside me went silent.
I didn’t scream. I didn’t cry. I didn’t rush to pull the clothes out of her hands.
I simply took out my phone and started recording.
I recorded her voice. I recorded the dress on the floor. I recorded Alejandro looking away. I recorded my mother-in-law stepping on my clothes as if she wanted to erase my dignity along with them.
“Teresa,” I said, “I paid for those clothes myself.”
She burst out laughing
