I stopped arguing. The family photo remained exactly where it had been—proudly displayed on the wall of the house I had worked so hard to build.
The hurt had dulled into something hollow, empty. And then, strangely, a laugh bubbled up from nowhere. Thirty years. Thirty long years spent in this ridiculous, pitiful existence.
For the first time in decades, a quiet, stubborn thought crept in: What if I lived for myself—just once? I gathered my papers, zipped up the folder, and lay back down, closing my eyes.
I couldn’t tell when the tears started or when they ended—only that, eventually, exhaustion dragged me into sleep.
I woke to the creak of the bedroom door—Ernesto, reeking of alcohol, staggered in and yanked me upright by the arm.
“You and Lydia are sisters—same blood,” he spat, voice rough. “So how does she come off elegant, poised… while you? Greasy, sloppy, narrow-minded. God, what did I ever see in you?”
A fair question. What did he see in me, back then?
I glanced down. My dress was faded, stretched, the seams thinning. I hadn’t thrown it away because… it still functioned. Ernesto’s clothes, on the other hand, were always immaculate. Crisp, ironed every single day by me—no wrinkle tolerated.
He looked sharp, presentable, almost like Lydia.
With a shrug of irritation, he flung his jacket toward me. Normally, I would have caught it, smoothed it out, hung it in the closet, laid out his pajamas like I always did. But tonight… I didn’t feel like taking care of him.
I let myself fall back onto the bed, closing my eyes, ignoring the rising storm in his voice.
“What are you still sulking about? Do you think you’re some moody teenager?”
His words hit like knives—sharp, bitter, dripping with contempt. “Acting like this at your age isn’t cute—it’s pathetic. Don’t make me lose what little respect I have left for you.”
I didn’t move. I just listened as he tore into me.
“Look at you—skin sagging, nothing left to hold it up. And you think someone’s going to pamper you?”
“You think you’re Lydia? That I’ll suddenly feel sorry for you if you pout like she does?”
“Watching you try to imitate her is disgusting.”
I remained still, though my heart hammered against my ribs.
Frustrated, he grunted and stormed off into the bathroom.
I kept my eyes closed. And in that quiet, my mind cleared in a way it hadn’t for years.
I remembered something long buried. Thirty years ago, Lydia had confessed her feelings to Ernesto—and he’d turned her down. Instead, he came to me.
He took my hands and said, “Maricel, I can’t be without you. I’m a drifter, a man with no roots. But with you… I feel at home.”
Back then, Ernesto and Lydia had been the golden couple of the arts troupe. Everyone assumed they would end up together. And yet, he chose me.
He chose me.
I had my doubts, of course. Ernesto and Lydia shared a passion for art, a language I never quite understood. Part of me felt they were meant to be.
When I asked him about it, he looked into my eyes, earnest and unwavering. “Dreams are fleeting, Maricel. What matters is what’s real—what we build together now. You create a life with someone solid, someone who grounds you.”
I believed him. For thirty years, I clung to the idea of solid. Reliable. Stable.
Now, I finally understood the truth. From the beginning, I had been the one sacrificed.
Because I could handle it. Because I would endure. Because I made things happen without complaint—I bore the weight of everything.
And Lydia? Carefree, whimsical, floating through life, chasing applause and dreams, never bound by guilt.
Ernesto married me, yes, but while I ran the home, cooked, cleaned, endured… he was free to chase his ambitions alongside her. Perhaps that had been his plan all along.
The realization twisted inside me, a storm I couldn’t contain, tears gathering somewhere deeper than my eyes—in my chest, in a place beyond reach.
How much could one person give over thirty years?
I clenched my jaw, forcing the tempest down, holding myself together.
And just as a fragile stillness settled, Ernesto’s phone rang incessantly.
