That word.
I heard it so many times over the years that it lost its meaning.
Or maybe it did.
It meant I had to get up before everyone else to cook.
It meant I had to give up my room when Camila came to visit.
It meant I had to put up with her humiliations when she was in a bad mood.
And Diego…
Always on the same side.
“She’s my sister, Lucía. Don’t exaggerate.”
“My mother is getting old, be patient with her.”
“You’re a woman, you should know how to compromise.”
Give?
Giving in became my routine.
My way of surviving.
Whenever I wanted to say something, I held back. Because I knew what would come next: ungrateful, difficult, a bad woman.
So I learned.
Be silent.
Lower your gaze.
Make myself small.
Until today.
Today was Camila’s birthday.
I got up before dawn. I prepared twelve dishes. Twelve. Because she likes to show off her abundance. Because nothing should be missing when there are guests. Because everything has to be perfect… for her.
By noon, my legs weren’t responding like they used to. But I carried on.
When we sat down at the table, she tasted the main course.
Sweet and sour ribs.
He chewed.
He frowned.
And she put down the cutlery with a thud.
“They’re really messed up,” she said, her voice still firm. “They’re not even sweet.”
I felt the silence fall.
I forced a smile.
“Next time, I’ll add more sugar.”
“Next time?” “It’s my birthday today, and you’re saying this to me?” she repeated, raising an eyebrow.
There was something in his gaze that was no longer just annoyance.
It was an attack.
“Did you do that on purpose?” he asked.
I blinked.
“What?”
My stepmother intervened, but not to defend me.
“Camila, don’t make a scene… I’m sure he didn’t mean any harm.”
But his gaze accused me.
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