My sisters stared at me as if I had spoken a foreign language.
My mother reacted first.
“What do you say, Diego?” she asked slowly.
Her voice was calm, but it carried that tone—one that since childhood had made me feel I was crossing a dangerous line.
I breathed deeply.
For the first time in many years, I didn’t look down.
“I said that no one treats Lucía as if she were the servant of this family again.”
Patricia let out a small, incredulous laugh.
“Oh, please… Diego, don’t exaggerate.”
Carmen crossed her arms.
“Lucía was just washing some dishes. Since when has that been a problem?”
Isabel, the eldest, gave me that serious look she always used to end any argument.
“We’ve worked in this house all our lives, too,” she said. “I don’t see why everything has to revolve around your wife now.”
I felt the blood rush to my head.
But this time, I didn’t back down.
“Because she’s eight months pregnant,” I replied. “And while she’s standing in the kitchen… you’re sitting here like nothing.”
No one spoke.
Silence filled the room again.
My mother turned off the TV.
