The millionaire thought his maid was just cleaning… until he discovered who was holding his mother.

PART 1

Julián Arriaga returned to his mansion in Bosques de las Lomas 2 days earlier than planned.

He came from Guadalajara, his jacket wrinkled, his cell phone exploding with messages, and his patience shattered by a negotiation that had fallen through at the last minute.

Nobody expected it.

Not even the head nurse.

Not even the driver.

Nor his fiancée, Barbara.

Nor did Doña Mercedes, her mother, a 68-year-old woman who had been fighting cancer for 9 months, a cancer that had taken away her appetite, her hair, and even that loud laugh with which she used to rule the whole house.

Julian entered unannounced.

And the first thing he noticed was the smell.

It didn’t smell like a private clinic.

It didn’t smell like expensive medicine.

It didn’t smell like elegant flowers, the kind that come with a card and zero heart.

Olía to chicken broth.

Cinnamon.

Home.

He frowned and walked towards his mother’s bedroom.

The door was ajar.

He was going to push her, but she remained motionless.

Doña Mercedes sat by the window, wrapped in a navy blue shawl. Her hands trembled on her thin legs.

Kneeling in front of her was Marisol, the cleaning girl.

He was 25 years old, came from Nezahualcóyotl, and had only been working at the house for 7 months.

For Julián, Marisol was almost invisible.

I saw her walking by with buckets, rags, and garbage bags.

I had never asked him if he had a family.

I had never remembered his last name.

But that afternoon I wasn’t cleaning.

Marisol held a razor and very carefully removed the last strands of hair from Doña Mercedes.

She cried silently.

It wasn’t a dramatic cry.

It was a small cry, one of those that comes out when someone accompanies a pain that does not belong to them, but carries it as if it did.

Doña Mercedes shook his hand.

« I don’t want to see myself yet, my child, » he whispered.

—Don’t let it show, Doña Meche. First, I’ll put her pretty turban on, the one with flowers. She’ll look lovely, you’ll see.

Julian felt a blow to his chest.

He had paid for everything.

The most expensive oncologist.

Imported medicines.

2 nurses per shift.

Special bed.

Nutritionist.

Physiotherapist.

Driver for each appointment.

Medical reports every Monday.

According to him, he had fulfilled his duties as a son.

But I had never done that before.

She had never sat and watched her mother lose her hair.

I had never asked her if she was afraid of dying.

He had never stayed overnight when she was vomiting.

He never understood that Doña Mercedes didn’t need another transfer, but a hand.

He left without making a sound.

The next morning, he summoned Marisol to his office.

She came in wearing a clean uniform, her hair tied back, and her eyes looking tired.

—I saw you yesterday— said Julian, curtly. —You weren’t hired to take care of my mother.

—I know, sir.

—Then explain to me why you go into his room.

Marisol took a deep breath.

—Because she calls me.

—My mother has nurses.

—She has nurses who check her blood pressure and write down the numbers. But when she cries at 3 in the morning, when she says she doesn’t want to wake up anymore, nobody sits with her. I do.

Julian was frozen.

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