My name is Valeria Ríos. I'm thirty-six years old and I'm the finance director of a pharmaceutical company with offices in Santa Fe. For years, people said I was a lucky woman: a good job, my own apartment, a professional husband, and a close-knit in-law family. Nobody knew that for five years, every month, I transferred two hundred thousand pesos to Sergio's family.
He also paid for consultations, medicines, electricity bills, overdue credit cards, insurance, Marco's emergencies, and even Jimena's "discreet treats," which always appeared disguised as family needs.
"Mrs. Irma," I said calmly, placing my glass on the table, "if there's a real medical expense, we'll review it. But I'm not going to increase the fixed amount."
She dropped the cutlery onto the plate.
—A fixed amount? Is that what you call taking care of your family? My son gave you his last name, the least you can do is live up to it.
Marco let out a dry laugh.
—Three hundred thousand is nothing to you, sister-in-law. It's just another meeting, another signature, one of those Excel spreadsheets you're so proud of.
Jimena raised her wrist so everyone could see her new bracelet.
"Besides, a family like ours can't go around looking pitiful. I have a christening on Saturday and I can't show up dressed like everyone else."
I looked at Sergio. I waited for him to say something. To defend me. To at least look at me.
He sighed, annoyed.
—Don't start, Valeria. My mom is just asking for what's fair.
That's when I realized I wasn't sitting at a family dinner. I was sitting across from a table of debt collectors.
I carefully put down the fork.
—No. From today on, I want transparency. If the money is for medicine, bring me prescriptions and receipts. If it's for Marco, say so upfront. If it's for handbags, manicures, trips, or luxuries, don't call it a family obligation.
The silence fell heavily. Don Ernesto lowered his eyes. Jimena stopped smiling. Marco put his cell phone away.
Doña Irma blushed.
