Five years in which I gave birth to her grandson, cared for her parents as if they were my own, and helped build the business of the person who now laughed at me.
What an irony.
Camila Chávez’s hotel chain, the one she boasts about so much, didn’t start with her brilliant ideas. It started with my money.
Two hundred thousand pesos.
My dowry.
The only support my mother left me before she died.
I remember that day perfectly.
Camila crying, saying she wanted to start her own business, that she had a project, that she just needed a push. My mother-in-law taking my hand with that sweet voice she only used when she needed something.
“Lucía, we’re family… you’re the older sister here, you have to support her. When she does well, she’ll pay you back everything.”
Diego, beside me, nodding.
“Think of it as an investment. It’s going to grow fast.”
I believed it.
I handed over the money without a contract, without guarantees, with nothing but words.
Five years later, there are three hotels up and running.
And my two hundred thousand pesos… vanished as if they’d never existed.
Every time I asked, Camila smiled.
“Oh, sister-in-law, the money’s being transferred, give me some time.”
And my mother-in-law would immediately chime in.
“Family doesn’t keep score.”
Family.
That word.
For years I heard it so much it lost its meaning.
Or maybe it did.
It meant that I had to get up before everyone else to cook.
That I had to give up my room when Camila came to visit.
That I had to put up with her humiliations when she was having a bad day.
And Diego…
Always on the same side.
“She’s my sister, Lucía. Don’t exaggerate.”
“My mom’s getting old, be patient with her.”
“You’re a woman, you should know how to compromise.”
Give in?
Giving in became my routine.
My way of surviving.
Every time I wanted to say something, I swallowed it. Because I knew what would come next: ungrateful, troublesome, a bad woman.
So I learned.
To be silent.
To lower my gaze.
To make myself small.
Until today.
Today was Camila’s birthday.
