I’m sitting in the kitchen, as always, sipping my tea in silence—but inside me, a storm is brewing.
In a small town near Valencia, where the sea breeze carries scents of freedom, my life at 52 has become a silent battle. My name is Carmen López, and I live in my two-bedroom apartment with my son Javier and his girlfriend Lucía. The three of us have been crammed together for three months, and every day I feel how my home, my fortress, becomes alien. The dirty dishes on the table are not just clutter, but a symbol of my loneliness and my pain.
**My son, my home**
Javier is my only son, my pride and joy. I raised him alone after losing my husband, giving him all my love and effort. He grew up to be a good man, although somewhat neglected. At 25, he met Lucía, and I was happy for him. She seemed charming: smiling, with long hair, and always politely greeting people. When Javier told me Lucía would be moving in with us, I didn’t object. “Mom, it’ll be temporary, until we find an apartment,” he promised. I nodded, thinking I could live with them. How wrong I was.
My two-bedroom apartment, cozy, full of memories. This is where I celebrated Javier’s first steps, this is where I dreamed with my husband. Now it’s a suffocating cage. Lucía and Javier occupy the large room, while I huddle in the small one, where my bed barely fits. I try not to get in the way, but their presence suffocates me. They live as if I don’t exist, and I, like a shadow, silently observe their lives.
**Dirty dishes and contempt**
Every morning I sit in the kitchen, drink my tea, and stare at the pile of dishes left after breakfast. Lucía cooks an omelet, Javier drinks coffee, they laugh and leave—to work, with friends, to their own affairs. And I’m left with their plates, cups, crumbs. I wash them because I can’t stand the chaos, but each time the anger grows within me. Why don’t they think of me? Why don’t they clean up? I’m not their maid, but they seem to think so.
Lucía never offers help. She passes by me, talking on her cell phone, without even saying hello. Javier, my son, the one who used to hug me every morning, now barely sees me. “Mom, are you okay?” he asks as he leaves, and I nod, hiding my pain. His indifference is a knife. I feel invisible in my own home, where every corner holds my memories.
**Hidden Pain**
I tried to talk to Javier. Once, when Lucía wasn’t home, I said to him: “Son, this is really bothering me. You don’t pick up, you don’t help. I feel like an intruder.” He looked at me in surprise: “Mom, you’ve always done everything. Lucía is tired, and so am I. Don’t make a big deal out of it.” His words pierced me. Can’t he see that I’m exhausted too? At 52, I work as a sales assistant, carrying boxes all day. But to them, I’m just something that should be comfortable, invisible.
I started noticing Lucía moving my things around. My pots and pans, my photos, even the tablecloth I love so much—nothing is in its place anymore. She does it without saying anything, but I can see it in her eyes: she wants to be the boss. And me? I’m unnecessary. My friend Rosa tells me: “Carmen, kick them out! This is your house!” But how can I kick my own son out? How can I tell him his girlfriend is stealing my peace? I’m afraid of losing him, but even more afraid of losing my dignity.
**The straw that broke the camel’s back**
Yesterday, Lucía left not only the dishes, but also wet towels on the sofa. I asked her to pick them up, but she just snorted: “Carmen, I’m in a hurry, I’ll do it later.” She didn’t. Javier, as always, looked away. At that moment, I understood: I can’t take it anymore. My house isn’t her hotel, and I’m not her housekeeper. I want my life back, my peace of mind, my respect.
I’ve decided to talk seriously with Javier. I’ll tell him they must respect my home or find another. It will be difficult—I know Lucía will turn him against me, I know he’ll be angry. But I can’t remain silent, drowning in silence while my soul screams. I deserve respect, even if it means breaking the family peace.
**My path to freedom**
This story is my cry to be heard. Maybe Javier and Lucía don’t mean to hurt me, but their indifference is killing me. I gave everything for my son, and now I feel like a stranger in my own home. I don’t know what will happen when I speak, but I know I won’t be a shadow anymore. At 52, I want to live, not hide behind dirty dishes. Let this step be my liberation—or my battle. I am Carmen López, and I will take back what is mine.
Để lại một phản hồi