He said it quietly, almost mockingly, like he was explaining something obvious to a careless child. Marta, my eldest daughter, slowly set her spoon down in her bowl. Daniel watched me in silence. I felt a sharp impact in my chest—not anger, but clarity.

Lucía had spent years depending on others. First, her rent was covered by her mother. Then Javier helped her open a beauty salon, which shut down in less than a year. After that came credit cards, “temporary” loans, late-night calls. There was always an excuse. And always, behind everything, was my husband fixing her problems with money that wasn’t entirely his.

“Tell her to return the keys,” I said.

Javier let out a sigh.

—Don’t make a scene.

—I’m not making anything. Tell her to bring back my car keys.

“You’re unbelievable,” he snapped, then added, “You don’t even earn a salary, yet you act like you support this household.”

I didn’t respond. I cleared the table, washed Daniel’s face, and braided Marta’s hair for school. I did everything with a calmness that even surprised me. Javier left half an hour later, convinced he had won yet another argument by wearing me down.