Today, as the sun set behind the fields of La Mancha, I felt I couldn’t take it anymore. My name is Lucía Martínez, I’m 28 years old, and since I married Javier three years ago, my life has become a nightmare. What began as a dream of love in this small town in Toledo, surrounded by olive groves and tradition, is now a prison. I’m a slave in my own house, trapped between the dictates of my mother-in-law, the indifference of my husband, and the expectations of a family that sees me as nothing more than a servant.
The love that blinded me
I met Javier at the Albacete fair. Tall, with an easy smile and eyes that promised protection, he spoke to me about building a home, about raising children among the olive trees and the aroma of fresh gazpacho. I, a city girl, fell in love with his simple world. A year later, we were married, and I moved to his town. But it wasn’t the paradise I imagined.
We lived with her parents, Carmen and Antonio, in a large house where visitors were always present: aunts, uncles, cousins, neighbors. I thought I’d be welcomed as one of the family, but from the first day, Carmen made my place clear: “Work is the name of the game here, Lucía. The women in this family aren’t lazy.” And so, with a forced smile, I began to obey.
Slavery disguised as family
My routine is endless. I get up at dawn to prepare breakfast: coffee with milk for Antonio, toast with oil for Carmen, and churros for Javier. Then, I scrub, sweep, hand-wash clothes in the yard, and tend to the vegetable garden. At noon, relatives arrive, and I cook paella or stew for ten people. At night, I clear the dishes while they laugh at the table, as if I were invisible.
Carmen constantly corrects me: “That’s not how you clean ham, Lucía.” “The floor is cold, you didn’t scrub it properly.” Antonio doesn’t speak, but his expression says, “We’re in charge here.” And Javier, instead of defending me, repeats, “Don’t argue with my mother; she knows best.” His silence hurts me more than his shouting. I thought he would be my refuge, but he’s another jailer.
The day I exploded
Last week, after a dinner where plates were left full of crumbs and Carmen criticized my omelet, I shouted, “I’m not your servant!” The silence was icy. Then Carmen snapped, “If you don’t like it, go back to your glass city. Women work here.” Javier didn’t even look at me. I went out to the corral, trembling, and understood: I’m trapped. I have nowhere to go—my mother lives in Valencia, and I have no savings. But staying means dying a little every day.
Even my reflection betrays me. I used to have shiny hair and smile; now I have dark circles under my eyes and rough hands. My friend Elena, seeing me, whispered, “You look like a shadow. How long will you hold out?” Hold out? I don’t even know if I love Javier anymore. His complicity with them has killed what I felt.
My secret plan
I started saving euros under my mattress—the money I save by buying less oil or bread. I want to rent an apartment in Cuenca, far from here. But I’m terrified of what they’ll say: “The crazy woman who left her husband.” And Javier… will he mourn my absence or just the lack of someone to iron his shirts?
Yesterday, while I was struggling with Carmen telling me how to do it, I swore I’d escape. I’m not a slave. I have dreams: maybe working in a flower shop, like before, or selling my embroidery online. But I won’t stay here, where my name is only spoken to command me to do something.
This diary is my cry. I fell into the trap of believing that love endures all things, but Javier and his family see me as just another piece of furniture. I can’t do it anymore. I don’t know how I’ll leave, but I will. At 28, I deserve to live, not survive. Let my escape be my rebirth… or my downfall.
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