Because you could survive Marisol’s cruelty. Women like her are almost simple once you accept that control is their religion. They decorate it with pearls and expensive perfume, but beneath the polish, it is still just hunger. Álvaro was harder. Álvaro kissed your forehead in public. Álvaro knew how to touch your lower back in crowded rooms and make people think you were cherished. Álvaro spoke fluent tenderness when witnesses were present.
Then, at home, he became a cold little king with his mother’s values and your exhaustion under his heel.
You close your eyes and try not to think about the kitchen.
You fail.
You see it too clearly. The steel bowls stacked by the sink. The grocery list clipped to the fridge. The giant aluminum trays Marisol dropped off the day before, already labeled in her handwriting. The command in everything. Start before three. Keep the seafood cold. Make the puff pastry fresh. Do not use too much garlic. Wear the cream blouse, not black, because black looks “staff.”
