"I think that's precisely the problem," I replied. "That I'm just starting to realize it." That night, I slept in the guest room, with the door locked and my phone under my pillow. I called the nurse and the caregiver and asked them, as per protocol, never to leave Diego alone with his father. I didn't give them details, but they sensed that something serious was wrong. The atmosphere in the house changed: it became heavy, tense, as if the walls knew that something had broken beyond repair. Weeks later, with the lawyer's advice, we filed a formal complaint for suspected abuse. A forensic doctor examined Don Manuel, documented the injuries, and noted the progression of the bruises. Diego yelled, threatened, and called me a traitor. He denied everything. He said I was manipulating his father to get the money. He asked me to withdraw the complaint. I didn't. It wasn't a movie. There was no dramatic confession or immediate arrest. There was paperwork, interviews, suspicious glances, awkward silences within the family. There were days when I doubted myself. Days when I wondered if I was truly betraying a man who, until then, I had believed loved me. But every time he entered Don Manuel's room, every time he saw his grateful eyes, every time he reviewed those pages written with such effort, he knew that, at least, he wasn't betraying him. In the end, life wasn't black and white. The legal process continues, the family business is in the hands of a receiver, and Diego and I are separated. I don't know if any judge will ever be able to prove what happened on that road that night of the accident. I don't know if the system will be able to see through my husband's polite smiles and crisply pressed suits. What I do know is that the day I took off my father-in-law's shirt, I also took off the mask of my marriage. And, as painful as it was, I would do it again.

“If you feel you are in danger,” the lawyer added, “or if you feel Mr. Manuel is in immediate danger, you can call the police. File a report for suspected abuse. Photos of the injuries would help.”

I took a deep breath. It wasn't a conversation I had ever imagined having.

Two days later, Diego returned from his trip.

I saw him come through the door with his suitcase, smiling wearily, as always. He hugged me, kissed me on the forehead, and asked about my week. I answered with short, automatic phrases. He noticed.

"What's wrong?" he frowned. "You have a face..."

"We need to talk," I said, interrupting him.

Her eyes changed immediately. That familiar gleam, a mixture of alertness and suppressed annoyance.

—You got someone to help with Dad, right? I told you not to go into his room alone.

"I went," I said, looking him in the eyes. "And I helped him take a bath."

His jaw tightened.

"I told you not to," she repeated, this time in a harsher tone. "He might get nervous, he might..."

—Diego, your father doesn't "get nervous." Your father is covered in bruises.

The silence that followed was heavy. I saw, clearly, how her expression changed from surprise to something colder.

"He's old, Ana. He gets marks on anything. The caregivers sometimes..."

"The caregivers don't hit him," I interrupted, pulling out my phone. "I've already spoken to them. And I have photos. Bruises that aren't just simple 'marks.'"

I swiped and showed him a close-up image of his father's torso. Diego glanced at it for barely a second and looked away.

"I don't know what you're implying," he said.

—I'm not implying anything. I'm saying what I saw. And what I read.

I took the notebook out of my purse and placed it on the table between us. He recognized it instantly. His eyes barely opened.

"What is this?" he asked, although it was clear that he did know.

—What your father wrote for months, when you weren't there. What you didn't want anyone else to read.

Diego grabbed the notebook roughly. He flipped through it, his fingers trembling. I saw him clench his jaw with each line he turned.

"He's delusional," she spat out finally. "You can see the lyrics yourself. They're weak, they're uncoordinated. Since when do you believe him more than me?"

"Ever since I saw him look me in the eyes with more clarity than you do now," I replied, feeling for the first time that I wasn't afraid. "Ever since he blinked 'yes' when I asked him if you hit him. Ever since I started seeing things about you that I never wanted to see."

He laughed, a dry laugh.

—So what are you going to do? Go to the police with this? With the scribbles of some old cripple who hates me because I finally got the company he always wanted to control?

It hurt that he said it so directly, but it was also a confession.

"I'm going to protect your father," I said slowly. "You're not going to be alone with him anymore. And yes, if necessary, I'll go to the police. I've already spoken with a lawyer."

His eyes darkened. For a moment I was afraid he would hit me too. But he just clenched his fists and turned away.

"You don't know what you're getting into, Ana," he muttered. "You have no idea who I really am."