We were elementary school teachers. We didn’t have luxuries, but we did have something more valuable: respect, calm, and an honest way of loving each other.
Everything changed one December, shortly before Christmas.
Ximena went to the market to buy ingredients for tamales. A truck with failed brakes hit her on a corner wet from the drizzle. When I received the call from the hospital, I was teaching. I remember dropping the chalk to the floor before running out.
When I saw her on the stretcher, I didn’t recognize her.
The woman who always walked briskly, who laughed with the children, and who sang while she cooked… lay motionless, her eyes filled with fear.
Severe spinal injury. Half-body paralysis.
From that day on, my world shrank to one room.
I took an indefinite leave of absence from school. Every spoonful of soup, every change of sheets, every clumsy massage on her numb legs… I did it all.
Our house became a makeshift clinic: medications, bandages, rehabilitation equipment, and that constant smell of alcohol and hopelessness.
Some family members suggested I take her to a specialized center. I always gave the same answer:
—She’s my wife. I take care of her.
