Part 1 – The Regret I Carry

I am thirty-four years old.

If someone asked me what the greatest regret of my life is, I wouldn’t say it was the money I lost or the opportunities I missed at work.

The thing that weighs on my heart is much quieter.

Much more shameful.

For a long time, I allowed my wife to suffer inside my own home.

The worst part?

I didn’t do it out of cruelty.

I simply didn’t see it.

Or maybe I did… but I chose not to think about it too deeply.

The Family I Grew Up In

I am the youngest of four siblings.

Three older sisters… and then me.

When I was a teenager, my father died suddenly. From that moment on, my mother—Doña Rosa Ramírez—had to carry the weight of the household alone.

My sisters helped her. They worked. They supported the family. They helped raise me.

And maybe because of that, I grew up used to them making decisions.

They decided what needed fixing in the house.

What groceries were bought.

Even things that, technically, should have been my decisions.

What I should study.

Where I should work.

Even who I should spend time with.