My husband moved in with his mistress. Silently, I brought his bedridden mother and handed her over to him. Before I left, I said something that left them both pale…

Miguel and I had been married for 7 years. Our marriage wasn’t a fairy tale, but I always tried my best—for our son, and for the home I had chosen. From the day of our wedding, I agreed to live with my mother-in-law, Doña Carmen, a woman who had suffered a stroke, was paralyzed on one side, and needed assistance with every meal and every night’s sleep. At first, I thought it would be simple: she was my mother-in-law, I was her daughter-in-law, and taking care of her was my responsibility. But I never expected that burden to last so long—and the most painful part was that it came from the very person who was supposed to share it with me: my husband, Miguel.

Miguel moved in with his mistress. Silently, I brought his bedridden mother and left her with him. Before leaving, I said something that left both of them pale…

Miguel and I had been married for seven years. Our marriage wasn’t a fairy tale, but I always tried my best—for our child, for the home I had chosen. From the day of our wedding, I accepted living with my mother-in-law, Doña Carmen, a woman who had suffered a stroke, was paralyzed on one side, and needed care for every meal and every night’s sleep. At first, I thought it was simple: she was my mother-in-law, I was her daughter-in-law, and taking care of her was my duty. But I didn’t expect that the burden would last so long—and the most painful part was that it came from the very person who was supposed to share it with me: my husband, Miguel.

Miguel went to work, and when he came back at night, he would stay glued to his phone. All the care for his mother—the meals, the water, the medicine—I did all of it alone. He always said: “You’re better at taking care of Mom than I am. If I do it, she’ll just suffer more.” I didn’t blame him.

I thought it was simple: the wife takes care of the house, the husband takes care of work. But then I discovered that Miguel wasn’t just going to work. He had someone else. Everything came to light when I accidentally saw a message: “I’ll come again tonight. Being with you is a thousand times more fun than being at home.” I didn’t scream or cry. I didn’t cause a scene.

I simply asked him quietly: “What are you going to do with your mother, whom you’ve ignored all these years?” Miguel said nothing. The next day, he moved out. I knew he had gone to live with that woman. Despite my calls and messages, he never replied. Doña Carmen, bedridden in her room, knew nothing. She still believed her son was busy with work and would return in a few days.

I looked at her—the same woman who once criticized every bite I ate, every nap I took, and told me I was “not worthy of being her daughter-in-law.” I felt a lump in my throat. I wanted to walk away from it all, but then I thought: a person must have dignity. A week later, I called Miguel: “Are you free? I’m bringing your mother to you so you can take care of her.” On the other end, there was a few seconds of silence—then he hung up. That afternoon, silently, I cleaned Doña Carmen, changed her clothes, and folded her bedding.

I packed her medications, hospital papers, and an old medical notebook into a cloth bag. At night, I lifted her into a wheelchair and gently said, “Mama, I’m taking you to Miguel’s place for a few days so you can get some fresh air. Staying in one place all the time must be boring.” She nodded softly, her eyes sparkling like a child’s. She had no idea she was about to be “returned” to her own son—the son who had chosen to abandon her.

When we arrived at the small apartment, I rang the bell. Miguel opened the door, and inside was the other woman, in a silk nightgown, lips painted red. Both of them were speechless when they saw me pushing the wheelchair, with Doña Carmen sitting there with a joyful expression. I rolled the wheelchair gently into the living room, arranged the blankets and pillows, and placed the bag of medicines on the table. The house smelled of perfume—but the silence was cold. Miguel stammered, “What are you doing?”…

I smiled, very gently:
“Don’t you remember? She’s your mother. I’m just your daughter-in-law. I took care of her for seven years— that’s enough.”

The woman standing behind Miguel, her face pale, was still holding a spoonful of yogurt that hadn’t reached her mouth. She quickly looked at the wheelchair and at Doña Carmen, who still didn’t understand what was happening and was innocently smiling upon seeing her son.

Miguel stepped forward awkwardly and tried to grab my hand to stop me.

I stepped aside, as calmly as if I were finishing a task I had long planned.

“Here’s the medical history, the monthly prescriptions, the diapers, towels, and ointment for the bedsores. I wrote down all the dosages in this notebook.”

I placed the notebook on the table and turned around to leave.

Miguel came closer, his voice noticeably louder:
“Are you abandoning my mother? What you’re doing is inhumane!”

I stopped, without turning around. I stood still for a few seconds, then replied quietly:
“You ignored her for seven years—what do you call that? I cared for her like she was my own family, not for you, but because she’s a mother. But now, I’m leaving—not out of resentment. I’ve simply done my part as a human being.”

I turned and looked the other woman straight in the eyes, smiling gently:
“If you love him, love him completely. This is part of the package.”

Then I took out the property deed and placed it on the table:
“The house is solely under my name. I’m not taking anything. He only took his clothes. But if in the future you need money for Mama’s medical bills, I’ll still contribute a portion—because I was a decent daughter-in-law.”

Then I leaned down and gently stroked my mother-in-law’s hair one last time:
“Mama, be a good girl here. If you feel sad, I’ll come back for you…”

Doña Carmen smiled, her voice trembling:
“Yes… come visit me again when you come home…”

I walked out of the apartment. The door closed behind me, leaving a quiet room filled with the scent of perfume mixed with the gentle aroma of massage oil.

That night, I slept deeply, dreamlessly.

The next morning, I woke up early and took my son out for breakfast. A new beginning—without tears, without bitterness—just the calm of a woman who had given all her love and had learned to let go at the right moment.