"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.
