I thought taking care of him for 4 years was worth it — until I heard “free maid” come out of his mouth…/th
When I agreed to take care of Don Ernesto, I thought it would be temporary, just a few months—enough to save some money and then look for another opportunity. He was a widower with a house so big it seemed like it would collapse on him. The garden, always full of dry leaves, gave the place a melancholic air.

His son Rodrigo introduced him to me at a small café downtown. He told me he traveled constantly for business, couldn’t keep an eye on his father, and needed someone trustworthy to accompany him.
“It’s not difficult,” he assured me, stirring his coffee. “He just needs company, someone to help with basic things—prepare meals, make sure he takes his medicine, nothing you can’t handle.”

I felt a bit nervous. I wasn’t a nurse or a professional assistant, but I had patience and was willing to work.
“And the pay?” I asked.
He smiled as if he already had the answer prepared.
“Would you live there, all expenses paid? And, of course, a small monthly compensation, but the most important thing is to treat him like family.” That last phrase convinced me.

It wasn’t a big salary, but at that time I was drowning in rent and bills. So, I accepted.
The first days with Don Ernesto were challenging. He was kind, yes, but very routine-driven. He woke up every day at 6 sharp, drank his black coffee with two sugar cubes, then went out to the garden even if it was cold.

He had knee problems, so sometimes I had to help him back to the armchair. Slowly, I adapted to his pace. I learned he liked 50’s movies, hated bread that was too crispy when toasted, and every Tuesday he called his friend from the chess club to talk about everything except chess.

A year passed, and I found myself loving him like a grandfather. When he got sick, I stayed up late making sure he took his medicine on time. If he craved a special soup, I’d go across town to get the ingredients. Many times I paid for those things myself without telling him because his pension barely covered expenses and I didn’t want to make him uncomfortable.

But family barely existed. Rodrigo came only on rare occasions, sometimes with a courtesy visit at Christmas or on his birthday. He always arrived in a rush, as if being there was a burden. It didn’t bother me because that meant I could keep Don Ernesto’s calm and routine without interruptions.

The fourth year arrived. By then, I wasn’t just the caregiver—I was the person running the house. I did the shopping, talked to the doctors, organized his papers, and even paid the bills with the money he left me. I felt proud that he trusted me so much.
The day before his 82nd birthday, I decided to prepare a special dinner for him.

I spent the whole morning cleaning and decorating the house a bit. I placed fresh flowers in a vase in the dining room and took out the china he saved for special occasions. I knew Rodrigo would come that night, so I thought it would be a good moment for father and son to share a nice time.

At exactly 7, I heard the doorbell, left the vegetables half-cut, and went to open it.
Rodrigo was there with a bouquet of flowers in one hand and a smile that didn’t quite convince me.
“Good evening,” he said in a tone that sounded more polite than affectionate.
“How’s my old man?”
“In the living room watching TV. Come in.”
I went back to the kitchen while he entered. I heard them greet each other, a brief exchange of words, then laughter.

I kept cutting vegetables, but suddenly his voice, louder than I expected, reached me.
“Good thing we have her as a free maid,” Rodrigo said, laughing. “That way I save paying someone for real.”
The knife froze in my hand. My first reaction was to think I had misheard. I stayed still, my heart pounding in my chest, but then he spoke again and there was no doubt.

“Dad, seriously? Don’t pay her anymore. She lives here for free, eats for free. What more does she want?”
The words hit like a dagger. I felt a mix of anger and shame. I wanted to walk into the room and confront him, but something stopped me. Maybe it was the desire to hear what else he would say, so I stayed by the door, silent, listening carefully.

Don Ernesto’s voice sounded softer, a bit uncomfortable.
“Don’t speak like that, Rodrigo. She’s done a lot for me.”
But he let out a short laugh.
“Come on, she does it because she has nowhere else to go. The day she finds something better, she’ll leave.”
That comment hurt even more than the previous one. Not only did he see me as a maid, but also as someone with an agenda, as if my sleepless nights and care were a strategy to take advantage.

I stood there frozen, feeling something inside me break. Four years of effort, the sleepless nights caring for him, the times I put my needs last—all reduced to two words: free maid.
I don’t know how long passed before I reacted. I returned to the kitchen with slow steps, trying not to let them notice I had heard.

I took a deep breath and continued with the dinner, though my hands trembled. Every knife cut on the board felt like a hard blow, as if I wanted to release my anger into the vegetables. That night something changed inside me. Until then, I believed that my work and dedication were worthwhile, that in the end, love and trust made it all worth it.

But now I understood not everyone saw it that way, and the person who could hurt me the most had already shown his true face. What I didn’t know was that phrase, spoken so lightly, would be just the first sign of something much darker.
The comment “free maid” still echoed in my mind as I carried the tray with dinner to the dining room.

My smile was forced, like a mask hiding the whirlwind of emotions inside me. Rodrigo looked at me and gave one of those polite but empty smiles, full of condescension that I now clearly saw.
“It looks delicious,” he commented, pouring himself some wine without even offering me any.
“Thank you,” I replied in a neutral tone.

During dinner, Rodrigo filled the conversation with stories about his travels and business. He talked about luxury hotels, meetings with important people, million-dollar deals. Everything sounded exaggerated and decorated to impress, as usual. Don Ernesto smiled, but I could see in his eyes that he was tired of hearing it.
“Well,” Rodrigo said, putting his glass down on the table, “I’m considering staying longer in the city, maybe even managing some of the house matters.”
His gaze met mine for barely a second, but long enough for me to understand that managing affairs was not an offer of help, but a veiled warning.

“The house is well taken care of,” I replied before Don Ernesto could say anything.
“And all the payments and maintenance are up to date.”
Rodrigo smiled sideways. “Sure, thanks to you, not me.”
His tone was ambiguous, as if he wanted to both praise and belittle me at the same time.

The rest of the dinner passed in uncomfortable silence, broken only by the clinking of cutlery against the dishes. When I finished serving dessert, I excused myself to go to the kitchen.

There, away from their eyes, I tried to calm down. I couldn’t let them see I was affected. While washing the dishes, I heard their voices again, softer this time. I moved carefully to the hallway and stopped a few meters away, making sure my steps didn’t creak on the wooden floor.

“Dad, I really don’t understand why you treat her like that,” Rodrigo said.
“She’s not family, and believe me, she does it because it suits her.”
“It’s not like that,” Don Ernesto replied firmly, though he sounded tired.
“She’s been here when you weren’t. She’s taken care of me, and that’s worth more than money.”
Rodrigo let out a mocking snort.
“That’s what you say now, but you’ll see the day when, well, when the time comes, everything will be mine, and I assure you I won’t share anything with her.”

I felt the air grow colder. That phrase wasn’t just a boast; there was something calculated in his voice.
“When the time comes,” what time was he talking about?
A disturbing idea began to form in my mind. I quietly walked away and returned to the kitchen, making noise with the dishes to make it seem like I had been there all along.

When Rodrigo said goodbye that night, he kissed me on the cheek, cold as a purely formal gesture.
“We’ll see each other soon,” he said, and his lingering look made my stomach twist.
After closing the door, I went to the study to put away some papers I had left on the desk. Don Ernesto was already in his chair, watching an old black-and-white movie.
His face looked serene, but I couldn’t stop wondering if he had also felt something strange during his son’s visit.

“Is everything okay?” I asked, stopping next to him.
“Yes, daughter. It’s just that Rodrigo has a way of saying things.” He paused.
“Don’t take it to heart.”
“Don’t worry,” I lied. I’m used to it. But I wasn’t used to that. Not that.

That night, while helping him to bed, I noticed he was quieter than usual. He said goodnight and quickly closed his eyes, as if he didn’t want to talk about it anymore.
I, however, couldn’t sleep.

I stayed awake, listening to every sound in the house. The ticking of the hallway clock seemed louder than usual. Outside, the wind moved branches against the windows, producing an irregular tapping. I tried to read a book to distract myself, but my mind kept returning to the phrase: “Everything will be mine.”

Around 2 a.m., I heard footsteps in the hallway.
I got up without turning on the light and barely opened the door. My heart was pounding so loudly I feared it might be heard, but when I peeked out, I saw no one. The hallway was dark except for a faint glow coming from the study.

I tiptoed closer. The door was ajar, and from there I saw Rodrigo.
I didn’t understand why he was still in the house. I had seen him leave myself. He wore a dark sweatshirt and held a small flashlight. He was searching drawers, moving papers as if looking for something specific.
I held my breath to stay quiet. Rodrigo opened a folder, took out several documents, looked at them for a few seconds, then tore them into pieces and put them in his pocket.
He then checked another drawer and repeated the action.

I slowly withdrew, careful not to be discovered, and returned to my room. My heart was pounding in my chest.
It was no longer just an ungrateful, ambitious son. It was clear Rodrigo had a plan, and it was not one that included me, or perhaps even his own father.

I spent the rest of the night awake, mentally reviewing what I had seen. If I confronted him, he would deny it. If I told Don Ernesto without proof, he might think I was exaggerating. I needed something solid, something that would allow me not only to defend myself but to stop him before he did something worse.

At dawn, while preparing breakfast, I already knew I couldn’t stand idly by. Rodrigo was a problem, and if I didn’t act, he would soon become a real threat. That morning, while Don Ernesto drank his black coffee with two sugar cubes, I tried to act like everything was normal. I smiled, asked about his sleep, commented on the weather, but inside every word I said was calculated to hide the unease consuming me.

Rodrigo had been in the house in the early hours, going through and tearing up documents. That meant he had a key or some way to enter without anyone seeing him. The problem was that I had no proof, only my eyes and memory. If I accused him without evidence, I could give him the chance to paint me as a liar, or even as someone trying to manipulate his father for personal gain.

And Rodrigo, with his salesman’s smile and sweet words, was perfectly capable of convincing anyone. While washing the breakfast cups, I told myself I had to find out exactly what he was looking for. I went to the study under the pretext of organizing papers. The desk was spotless, but not to me. I knew every folder, every drawer.

One of them, the third one on the right, was slightly out of place, as if it had been opened and hurriedly closed. I opened it. Inside were documents of all kinds—bills, receipts, old letters—among them a blue folder that I recognized. I knew it contained important papers because months earlier Don Ernesto had asked me to keep them safe.

Inside, I found insurance policies, deeds, and an envelope with the family lawyer’s name on it. My heart quickened. The envelope was sealed but not taped shut. I hesitated for a few seconds before opening it. Inside was a draft of a will dated recently. I read it line by line and there was my name, included in a clause that left me a small part of the property as gratitude for the years of care.

It wasn’t a millionaire inheritance, but it was a significant gesture. Suddenly, I understood everything. Rodrigo had discovered this, and that was why he hated me. To him, anything less than getting absolutely everything was a threat. I put the document back, making sure it was exactly as I had found it.

For the rest of the day, I couldn’t stop looking at the locks of the house. I wondered how he had gotten in. We had spare keys in a kitchen drawer, but they were still there. That meant he either had a copy for some time or someone was letting him in. The second option scared me more.

At night, when Don Ernesto went to bed, I stayed in the living room with the lights low, pretending to read. I hoped to hear any unusual noise. The hours passed slowly and when the clock struck one, I was starting to think nothing would happen. But then, a creak at the front door put me on alert.

I got up quietly and looked towards the hallway. The shadow of a man was cast on the wall. The door closed with a slow, barely audible movement. It was him, Rodrigo. He was wearing the same dark sweatshirt as the night before. He moved straight to the study. I hid behind the dining room door, barely breathing. I heard him open drawers, murmuring something under his breath, then a sharp sound.

He was using a cutter to cut something. I peeked just enough to see him in profile. He pulled pages from a folder and put them in a black bag. I wanted to record him with my phone but didn’t dare turn on the camera for fear the sound or light would give me away. I had to think of another way to catch him.

Suddenly, a sharp noise made me step back. Rodrigo had knocked over a picture frame, perhaps by accident. The broken glass crunched under his shoes. He stood still for a few seconds, listening. I froze, holding my breath. Then he bent down again and continued with his task. After a few minutes, he left the study and headed to the front door.

He opened it and left, closing it slowly behind him. Only then did I dare to move. I ran to the study and saw the blue folder was still there, but emptier. I checked quickly. Several pages were missing. Although the draft of the will remained. Rodrigo hadn’t found the copy I had seen in the envelope.

I stood there with cold hands. This was no longer suspicion; it was a fact. Rodrigo was stealing important documents and probably destroying anything that benefited me. If I didn’t act soon, I could lose the only protection I had. That early morning I didn’t sleep. I sat in the kitchen with a cup of cold tea, thinking— I could call the police, but what would I tell them? I saw my boss enter his house and take papers.

It would sound like a trivial family matter, and the last thing I wanted was to cause a scandal that might affect Don Ernesto. Then I thought of the lawyer. He should know if there were more copies of those documents, if he could confirm that what I saw in the will was still valid, and if he could help me protect Don Ernesto before Rodrigo acted again.

At dawn, while Don Ernesto was still asleep, I dialed the number on the envelope. A deep, calm voice answered. I introduced myself and cautiously explained that we needed to talk, that there were things that couldn’t wait. I didn’t give details over the phone, but he agreed to come that same afternoon under the pretext that he would bring some documents to review with Don Ernesto.

I spent the rest of the day restless, watching the street, wondering if Rodrigo would come back before the lawyer arrived. And the worst part was that I no longer felt the danger was only about papers or inheritance. There was something in the way he moved, in the coldness with which he burst into the house, that made me think he wouldn’t hesitate to go further to get what he wanted.

The next afternoon, the lawyer arrived right on time, exactly when we had agreed. He wore a gray suit and carried a thick folder under his arm. His presence brought calm, but I knew that as soon as he stepped through that door, things would get tense.

“Good afternoon, miss,” he greeted me with a firm handshake. “Is Mr. Ernesto here?”

“Yes, he’s in the living room. Please come in.”

When we entered, Don Ernesto looked up from his chair and smiled.

“Well, what a surprise. Julián, you didn’t tell me you were coming.”

“I wanted to bring you certified copies of your documents in person.”

“As we discussed,” the lawyer replied naturally. “It’s always good to have a backup.”

You never know if things at home can go missing.

The last sentence hung in the air like a stone thrown into a pond. Don Ernesto frowned as if trying to decipher the meaning behind that phrase. I stayed on the sidelines watching, but the calm didn’t last long. Just five minutes after Julián arrived, we heard the front door open. It was Rodrigo.

He entered as if he owned the place—and in his mind, he probably did—wearing a strong cologne and a smile that faded as soon as he saw the lawyer sitting in the living room.
“Well, well,” he said, placing his keys on the table.
“And what’s this formal meeting about?”
“Legal matters,” Julián answered in a neutral tone.

“Nothing that shouldn’t be up to date.” Rodrigo forced a laugh. “Legal matters. How curious. I thought everything was already in order.”
His gaze fixed on me. It lasted barely a second, but I felt a chill run down my spine. I knew he perfectly understood what was happening, even if no one said it out loud.

Julián took a sealed envelope from his folder and placed it on the table.
“Here you go, Don Ernesto—the certified copy of your will and other important documents. I recommend keeping them in a safe place.”

Rodrigo shifted uneasily in his seat.
“Another copy?” he asked, trying to sound casual.
“No need,” said the lawyer without looking away from him. “It’s always better to be cautious. You never know if a document might disappear.”

The silence that followed was heavy and uncomfortable. Don Ernesto looked at his son, then at me, and finally nodded. He took the envelope and put it in the locked drawer of his desk.

Rodrigo changed tactics: he stood up, put his hands in his pockets, and said in a tone that tried to sound cheerful,
“Well, if everything’s in order, I’m off. I’ve got things to do.”

But his look before leaving was a silent promise. This wasn’t over.

When he left, I finally felt I could breathe. Julián and I exchanged a brief look of complicity. He knew that what we had done was more than just handing over documents. It was a wall of protection against an attack already underway.

“If you notice anything strange, call me immediately,” he told me before leaving. “And keep digital copies of everything. Don’t underestimate him.”

That night, while helping Don Ernesto organize his medicines, he looked at me with tired eyes.
“Daughter, I know there are things you don’t tell me.
I’m not stupid.”

I stayed silent.
“I don’t want to worry you, Don Ernesto. Rodrigo can be impulsive, but he is my son,” he said with a sigh.
“However, if you ever have to choose between protecting me or protecting yourself, do what you must.”

His words moved me but also put me on alert. It wasn’t just that he sensed something was wrong—it was as if he feared the worst was yet to come.

I went to sleep with the feeling that danger was still lurking—and I wasn’t wrong.

At 3 a.m., a loud noise woke me: a sharp bang, like a door slamming shut. I got up and headed toward the hallway.

I saw a shadow moving quickly toward the study. My heart started pounding. I knew who it was.

This time, I didn’t just watch from afar. I took my phone and started recording as I silently approached.

Through the half-open door, I saw Rodrigo again, rummaging through drawers. He had a bunch of keys and was trying them one by one on the desk.

When he found the right one, he opened the drawer where hours earlier Don Ernesto had placed the envelope.

“Come on,” he muttered nervously. “Where are you?”

He found the envelope, opened it, and quickly checked the papers. Seeing they were copies, his expression changed—he furrowed his brow, clenched his teeth, and began tearing them one by one.
“They’re not yours anymore, old man,” he said through gritted teeth.

I recorded everything—every gesture, every word—and made sure his face was clearly visible on the video.

When he finished, he put the pieces in his backpack and left, exiting through the same door he had entered.

I waited a few minutes before waking Don Ernesto and showed him the video silently.

He watched it all without interrupting. At the end, he asked me to call Julián.

At dawn, the lawyer was at the house. He reviewed the video, saved it on his own phone, and said,
“This is enough—not only to prevent him from touching anything else but to make him understand he cannot intimidate you or you, Don Ernesto.”

That same day, Rodrigo received a legal notice prohibiting him from entering the house without prior permission.

He wasn’t arrested, but the message was clear. Any attempt to force entry or manipulate documents would be a crime.

I never saw him again, but his absence didn’t bring immediate relief—rather, it left me constantly vigilant. Every time I heard footsteps outside or saw a car stop in front of the house, I tensed.

However, something had changed in me.

I was no longer the woman who agreed to care for an old man thinking it would be just for a few months. Now I knew that four years of my life had built a real bond, and no one—not even his own son—had the right to belittle it.

Don Ernesto, for his part, became more open with me. We talked more, shared stories, and I got the impression that in his own way, he was grateful—not only for my care but for protecting his dignity.

The video and the copies of the will remained safely stored. And I knew that even if Rodrigo ever tried to come back, this time I would be ready.

Because after hearing “free maid” come out of his mouth, I had learned that the real danger isn’t always visible, but it is felt—and once you feel it, you never lower your guard again.