My name is Loretta Álvarez.
I am seventy-two years old, and after years of illness, breathing has become difficult for me. All I wanted was a quiet life and a little consideration in the home I lived in with my son and his wife.
It started with a small, careful request. I politely asked my daughter-in-law, Sofia, if she could avoid smoking in the kitchen because the smoke made it hard for me to breathe. She didn’t respond with concern—only a cold smile, as if my discomfort didn’t matter.
Before I could say anything else, my son Diego stepped in. Instead of calming the situation or listening, he grew angry. In a moment I still struggle to understand, he raised his hand and slapped me, as though defending his wife mattered more than his mother’s health.I stood there in sh0ck.
Not so much from the pain, but from the realization that something fundamental had broken. That single moment erased years of sacrifice, care, and silence.
That evening, Diego and Sofia went out to dinner as if nothing had happened. I was left alone in the house, surrounded by quiet. I didn’t cry. I didn’t shout. I simply sat and understood something I had avoided for a long time: my silence had taught them that I would always endure.
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