As soon as we arrived home, I handed her a folder. Transparent, organized, filled with printed sheets and schedules marked down to the minute.
“Eight-thirty, breakfast. Nine, light leg exercises. Ten, short walk. Eleven, tea and rest. Twelve, massage…”
“Massage?” she raised an eyebrow suspiciously.
“Of course. Recovery requires discipline and consistency.”
During the following days I was impeccable.
Too impeccable.
Doña Teresa couldn’t take a single step without me supervising her. I reminded her how to sit, when to stand up, what she shouldn’t eat “so as not to interfere with her recovery.” I eliminated sweet bread, sugary treats, and strong coffee. Everything carefully justified.
“Gabriela, I’ve eaten like this my whole life,” she protested, increasingly irritated.
“I know, but now we’re in a therapeutic process,” I always replied with a calm smile.
Alejandro soon began to notice the consequences of his decision. A few days later I casually mentioned that we would have to adjust our expenses.
“What do you mean adjust?” he asked, confused.
“Well… I no longer have a salary. And the savings are going toward medication, supplements, special food. That’s normal, right?”
I canceled subscriptions, reduced “unnecessary” expenses—including his budget for creative projects. I began asking him to accompany his mother to the doctor, to help her shower whenever I said I was exhausted.
“Gabriela, I don’t know how to do that…” he muttered uncomfortably.
