PART 1
Every two weeks, as soon as his salary arrived, Martín would get home to Nezahualcóyotl with the same defeated look on his face.
I worked in a packaging factory in Iztapalapa, standing for 10 hours among hot machines, the smell of burnt plastic, and a supervisor who yelled as if everyone owed him their life.
But what weighed most heavily on him was not the job.
It was a matter of arriving home and handing his bank card to his wife, Maribel.
That night he threw his backpack next to the old armchair and took out his wallet.
“Here,” he said, placing the card on the table. “But now give me at least 300 pesos. It’s Chuy’s birthday and everyone’s going out for some beers.”
Maribel was sitting with a graph paper notebook, a calculator, and several folded receipts.
He didn’t even raise his voice.
—I can’t, Martín. The electricity, water, and rent bills all came due. I can give you 30 for your bus fare and 20 for phone credit.
Martin let out a bitter laugh.
—50 pesos? Seriously? I work my back off all week and you give me money like I’m a high school kid.
She gripped the pen between her fingers.
-It’s not that.
—Of course that’s it. You decide everything. You hold my card. You pay. You distribute. And I’m left looking like a fool, unable to even buy myself a decent pair of sneakers.
Maribel lowered her gaze.
They had been married for 10 years and had lived for 5 years in that rented, damp little house, with a sheet metal roof in the back and a wall that peeled every time it rained.
Martin hated that house.
He also hated being mocked by his coworkers at the factory.
—Broke again, buddy?
—Your mom really keeps you on a short leash.
—Even my mom didn’t control me like that.
He laughed so as not to appear angry, but inside he was feeling an ugly rage building up.
Maribel never bought anything for herself.
I wasn’t going to the living room.
She wasn’t wearing new clothes.
He didn’t ask for food.
If Martín wanted tacos, she made beans with eggs.
If he wanted to go to the movies, she said they’d rather watch a movie on TV.
If he asked for money for a barbecue, she replied:
—That pays half the gas bill.
Over time, Martín began to suspect.
I thought Maribel was secretly sending money to her family in Puebla. Or worse, that she had secret savings to leave him someday.
The final straw came on their wedding anniversary.
Martin returned late, tired and in a bad mood, hoping to find reheated rice.
But the table was set.
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