I endured contempt in my own home until he destroyed my birthday cake with a cruel smile. My son demanded I pay for the luxury handbag I burned belonging to his wife, unaware that I had already uncovered his dirty banking secret.

I cooked, cleaned, paid bills, bought groceries, and even covered gas for the car Mauricio used as if it belonged to him.

And still, Valeria complained.

My  food smelled greasy. My house looked old. I walked too slowly. I talked too much to neighbors. Mauricio would never mature because of me.

That birthday, all I wanted was a peaceful afternoon. My neighbor Brenda had baked my favorite strawberry cake. But when it was time to cut it, Valeria walked too close to the table and knocked it down with her elbow.

It was not an accident.

Everyone saw it.

So I walked to the chair where her luxury handbag sat, picked it up calmly, crossed the patio, and dropped it into the brazier where the coals still glowed.

The leather began to smoke.

Valeria screamed.

“My bag! Mauricio, say something!”

Mauricio rushed toward me.

“Mom! Do you know how much that costs?”