PART 1 The millionaire's wife pretended to care for her ailing mother-in-law… until the maid pressed play in front of everyone.
If Doña Berta doesn't eat dinner, all the better. The less strength she has, the less trouble she'll cause." Elena stood still by the sink, her hands covered in soap suds and her heart heavy. Valeria Castañeda's voice came from the dining room, soft and delicate, as if she were talking about flowers and not an 81-year-old woman she'd been slowly extinguishing for weeks. The Villalobos mansion in Jardines del Pedregal looked like a picture-perfect house: light-colored stone, enormous windows, perfect bougainvillea, and a fountain that never stopped running. On the outside, everything was luxurious. On the inside, Elena had already learned that money could also smell like fear. She'd only been working there for a month. She'd been hired for cleaning and light cooking, but from the first week she understood that her real job was to stare at the floor, ask no questions, and disappear the moment Valeria entered a room. Esteban Villalobos, owner of a huge construction company, was almost never home. He left early with a driver, returned late at night glued to his cell phone, and fell asleep on the couch with his tie loosened. Sometimes he kissed his mother, Doña Berta, on the forehead and promised her: "I'll have breakfast with you tomorrow, boss." But that tomorrow never came. Valeria, his wife, was different around him. She smiled, straightened his jacket, called him "my love" with a sweetness straight out of a novel, and then sighed like a martyr. "Your mother was difficult today. She didn't want to eat, she got upset, she even threw her glass at me. Poor thing, she's losing herself." Doña Berta lowered her gaze.Or she couldn't. She was a thin woman with white hair and trembling hands, but with black eyes that still cried out for help. Elena noticed it from the first day. That woman didn't look confused. She looked like someone being watched. The plates returned to the kitchen almost untouched. The gelatin melted. The broth cold. The rice barely stirred with the spoon, as if someone had pretended to eat. But at night Valeria would say: "She ate wonderfully. She even asked for more soup." And Esteban would nod, tired, without checking the plate. One afternoon, Elena found something strange behind the cushion of the armchair where Doña Berta spent hours gazing at the garden. There were four small pieces of dried tortilla wrapped in a napkin, half a blackened plantain, and two Maria cookies hidden as if they were jewels. Elena felt a lump in her throat. The woman wasn't refusing the food. They were leaving her hungry. From that day on, he began to observe. He saw Valeria keeping the medicine in a locked metal box. He saw her mixing clear drops into Doña Berta's water and then saying:So you can rest, Mother-in-law. Don't make a fuss. After that, the old woman slept for hours, her mouth dry and her hands drooping on the blanket. She also saw bruises on her wrists. Valeria said she'd hurt herself. She saw letters thrown in the trash, all from a sister of Doña Berta's who lived in Morelia. She saw canceled calls, rejected visits, and the bedroom phone unplugged. One Wednesday, Elena dared to bring her some sliced papaya with lime. Doña Berta looked at her with tears in her eyes. "God bless you, my dear." She only managed to eat three bites before Valeria appeared in the doorway. She didn't scream. She smiled. That smile was worse. "Elena, no one is fed here without my permission. Is that clear?" "Yes, ma'am." "Because a meddlesome employee doesn't last long in a house like this." Elena lowered her head, but something inside her stirred. That night she heard Doña Berta trying to talk to Esteban. "Son… I need to tell you…" Valeria squeezed his shoulder. "Don't listen to her, love. When she gets like this, she makes things up. The doctor already said it could be dementia." Esteban closed his eyes, exhausted. "We'll talk later, Mom." And he went to his office. The next day, Elena found a crumpled flyer in the trash can: "La Arboleda Residence. Closed area for patients with advanced deterioration." In one corner, written in pen, was Doña Berta Villalobos's full name.
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