I showed up unannounced… and discovered what I never wanted to know.

Sometimes I think true happiness is seeing your children healthy, living stable lives, and building families of their own. I considered myself a fortunate woman: I had a loving husband, an adult daughter named Lucía, and affectionate grandchildren. We weren’t rich, but we lived surrounded by love and harmony. What more could I ask for?

Lucía married young, at twenty-one, to Alejandro, who was already in his thirties. My husband and I didn’t object — he seemed like a serious man, with a steady job and a home of his own. Not some aimless student, but someone grounded. He paid for the wedding, the honeymoon, and spoiled Lucía with expensive gifts. Even our relatives whispered, “Lucía found her Prince Charming.”

The first few years were like a dream. Pablo was born, then Clara. They moved to a bigger house in Toledo and visited us on weekends. But over time, Lucía became quiet, distant. She smiled less, answered in monosyllables. She said everything was fine, but her voice was hollow. A mother’s heart knows the truth.

After days of no response to my messages, I decided to go see her — unannounced. I’d say, “I missed my grandchildren,” as an excuse.

When I arrived, Lucía seemed startled. Not out of joy, but discomfort. Her dim eyes avoided mine as she took refuge in the kitchen. I helped with dinner, played with the kids, and stayed the night.

That night, Alejandro came home late. There was a long blonde hair on his shirt, and his jacket smelled like expensive women’s perfume. He kissed Lucía on the cheek. She just nodded, without emotion.

I woke up in the middle of the night and heard him whispering on the balcony:
—Soon, darling… No, she doesn’t suspect a thing.
I gripped my glass so tightly it nearly shattered. My stomach knotted.

In the morning, I confronted Lucía:
—Do you know what he’s doing?
She lowered her eyes and muttered:
—Mom, don’t get involved. Everything’s fine.
I told her what I had seen and heard. She, as if rehearsed, replied:
—You’re imagining things. He’s a good father, he gives us everything. Love… changes over the years.

I locked myself in the bathroom and cried. I felt like I was losing not only Alejandro, but my daughter too. She was living out of obligation, not love, tied to the fear of losing her comfort. And he… was taking advantage of her silence.

That afternoon, when Alejandro came home, I confronted him:
—I know what’s going on.
He didn’t flinch:
—So what? —he shrugged—. I haven’t left her. I sleep here, I pay the bills. She knows and it works for her. It’s none of your business.
—And what if I tell her everything?
—She already knows. She prefers to ignore it. It’s easier that way.

I was paralyzed. I returned to Madrid by train, my soul in pieces. On one hand, adults are responsible for their own choices; on the other, my daughter — whom I always protected — slowly fading beside an indifferent man.

I don’t know what to do. My husband insists:
—Don’t interfere, or you’ll lose her.
But I feel like I’m already losing her. All because she wanted to “live like a queen”… and now she’s paying for that luxury with her dignity.

I keep praying that one day she’ll wake up, look in the mirror, and realize she deserves more. That respect is worth more than a designer purse, that faithfulness isn’t a luxury — it’s the bare minimum. Maybe then, she’ll pack her things, take Pablo and Clara by the hand… and leave.

As for me… I’ll be here. Even if she distances herself now. I’ll wait. Because “mother” isn’t just a word. It’s someone who never gives up — even when her heart is breaking.