Empυjé sυavemeпte…
The room was empty.
The sheets were wrinkled, the smell of perfume was strong and on the nightstand there was an old photograph: a picture of Etha at eight years old, sitting on his mother’s lap, with his father standing behind him but with half of his face cut off.
I picked up the photo. On the back there was a handwritten note:
“We don’t need anyone else.”
At that moment, Margaret appeared in the doorway, her smile soft but her eyes cold:
Good morning, dear. Did you sleep well on the sofa?
I smiled awkwardly, but my heart was beating strongly.
In the morning light, she didn’t seem drunk at all; she was completely sober, almost… observing my reaction.
Coп el paso de los días me fЅi daпdo cЅeпsta poco a poco de que хe algo пo iba bieп.
Margaret was always by her son’s side, everywhere and at all times.
While I was preparing breakfast, she tasted it first. When I touched my husband’s hand, she interrupted me with an absurd excuse.
Every night, she would call our door, under the pretext of “giving you good nights”.
Siп embargo, susЅs ojos пo estabaп pυestos eп mí, estabaп eп Ethaп, coп хпa mirada qυe era sido a sido a sido a seпtil y poderosa.
“My son has always needed me,” he said once when we were alone.
It’s fragile. Don’t try to replace it.
I realized: this was not normal material love.
But it was possessiveness disguised as love, and Etha, the husband she loved, was being frightened by her.
One night I woke up to the sound of a soft bell in the attic.
I approached and opened the door to the room that had been locked since I moved in.
Under the yellow light, I saw old photos pasted all over the wall: photographs of Etha from infancy to adulthood, most of them alone or with her mother.
There was a diary on the table.
The first page said:
After the accident, it was just you and me left. Your father died, but he blamed your mother.
“From then on I swore that I would never let anyone take you away from me.”
I shuddered.
The next page contained scribbled, erased, and repeated words:
She can’t take it. Nobody can.
And below was my wedding photo, with my face smashed.
I took the diary to Etha so that he could see it.
He kept silent for a long time and then said:
When I was 10 years old, my father died in an accident. The police suspected my mother caused it, but there was not enough evidence.
She lost all faith, and since then I have stayed by her side.
“Anyone who approached me – friends, girlfriends – disappeared.”
It attracted me.
¿Crees que tu madre está ocultando algo?
Él estuvo de acuerdo:
“Siempre sentí… que la muerte de mi padre no fue un accidente”.
Una noche decidí expresarlo.
Cuando Etha se fue, busqué a Margaret en el estudio.
—Ya tienes que controlarlo —dije con una voz temblorosa.
“Lo salvaste del mundo, pero también lo mataste con miedo”.
No lo entiendes. El mundo me lo quitó todo. ¡Solo me quedé con lo que me quedaba!
—Pero estás matando a tu hijo —respondí.
Se me acercó con una voz fría:
Si realmente lo amas, entonces déjalo. Porque un día tú también desaparecerás, como su padre, como todos los demás.
A la mañana siguiente, Etha y yo nos preparamos para salir de casa.
Pero cuando me fui, la criada me entregó un sobre.
Dentro había una carta, con una letra que parecía familiar:
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