You believed them because that was what decent people do when a family is grieving and the story arrives prepackaged in medical language.
The night before the brothers leave for what they call a desperately needed men’s trip to clear their heads, Carlos gives you a printed list. Medication times. Emergency contacts. Instructions for repositioning Dolores every four hours. A warning not to let anyone inside the house unless you call him first. He says Michael installed a hallway camera for security. He says it twice, almost casually, which is how control likes to dress when it wants to look reasonable.
You tell yourself it is just stress.
You tell yourself grief makes people strange, territorial, brittle. You tell yourself that four years into this marriage, you are still learning how the Mendoza men love. You have already learned one part, which is that they prefer loyalty proven through endurance. The women around them are always expected to absorb the strain and call it understanding.
The first day passes in almost holy silence.
You change Dolores’s gown, dab moisturizer onto the paper-thin skin of her hands, wet her lips with a sponge, and place soft piano music on the speaker because you once read hearing is the last thing to go. You talk to her quietly while sunlight drifts across the room and dust turns in the beams like tiny floating ghosts. You tell her what the weather is doing. You tell her her rose bushes need pruning. You tell her Carlos said she used to hum when she cooked, though you notice later he has never once actually told you any story about her that sounds tender enough to be true.
