PART 1
Every fortnight, as soon as the salary fell, Martin arrived at his home in Nezahualcóyotl with the same face of defeat.
He worked in a packaging factory in Iztapalapa, standing 10 hours between hot machines, smell of burnt plastic and a supervisor who screamed as if everyone owed his life.
But what weighed most on him was not the chamba.
It was getting home and handing his bank card to his wife, Maribel.
That night he threw the backpack next to the old armchair and took out the wallet.
“Take,” he said, leaving the card on the table. But now give me even 300 pesos. The Chuy turns years old and everyone is going to go for some chelas.
Maribel was sitting with a notebook of squares, a calculator and several doubled receipts.
He didn't even raise his voice.
I can't, Martin. The light, water and rent came together. I can give you 30 for your tickets and 20 for balance.
Martin let out a bitter laugh.
50 pesos? Neta? I give my back all week and you give me money like I'm a high school kid.
She squeezed the pen between her fingers.
It's not that.
“Of course that is it. You decide everything. You keep my card. You pay. You split. And I look like a guy, without being able to buy me even some decent tennis.
Maribel looked down.
They had been married for 10 years and 5 living in that rented, wet house with a sheet roof in the back and a wall that was broken every time it rained.
Martin hated that house.
He also hated his factory companions to mock.
Again without wool, do you compa?
“Your old lady does bring you short.
“My mom didn’t even control me like that.
He laughed at not seeing himself burned, but inside he was gathering an ugly rage.
Maribel never bought anything for her.
I didn't go to the living room.
I didn't wear clothes.
He didn't order food.
If Martin wanted tacos, she would make egg beans.
If he wanted to go to the movies, she said they better watch a movie on TV.
If she asked for money for a roast meat, she would reply:
“That pays for half a receipt for the gas.
Eventually, Martin began to be suspicious.
He thought Maribel sent money hidden from her family in Puebla. Or worse, that I had secret savings to leave it someday.
The drop that spilled the glass came on their wedding anniversary.
Martin returned late, tired and bad, hoping to find reheated rice.
But the table was set.
There was roasted chicken, codito soup, hot tortillas, apple soda and even a small flan.
Maribel wore a simple red dress, the same one she wore when they were still boyfriends and walked along the Alameda holding hands.
“Happy anniversary, Martin,” she said, smiling nervously.
He didn't smile.
“And this with what money did you buy it?”
Maribel was freezing.
Before answering, his cell phone vibrated on the table.
Martin managed to read the message.
“Doña Maribel, tomorrow we signed. Bring the last payment. — Ernesto.”
Martin’s face hardened.
“Ernesto?” he asked with a broken voice of courage. Who the hell is Ernesto?
Maribel paled.
Martin, wait...
But he had already taken the cell phone.
“5 years taking my money to give it to another bastard!
Maribel opened a drawer, took out a thick yellow envelope and put it in front of him with his hands shaking.
Before you say anything else, open this up.
Martin looked at the envelope like a bomb.
And when he broke the flap, he felt the air stuck in his chest.
