Chapter 2 - The Rules of the Household
The morning after the lock was installed, the reality of our new life settled over the apartment like a thick, gray fog.
The lock remained firmly bolted. At 7:00 a.m., the sharp, metallic scrape of the key turning in the lock woke me from a fitful sleep on the living room floor. I sat up, my back aching from the thin foam mat, to see my mother stepping out of the kitchen. She wore a pristine apron over her dress, her hair pinned back, her face glowing with the satisfaction of a ruler who had successfully secured her borders.
"Breakfast is ready," she announced, placing a single, small bowl of plain, lukewarm oatmeal on the dining table. "Adrian, you eat. Then you can take some broth to your wife."
I rubbed my eyes, the smell of burnt milk and stale cinnamon filling the air. "Mom, did you make Lillian's eggs? She needs protein. The doctor said she should have at least sixty grams of protein a day to help her tissue heal."
My mother dismissed me with a flick of her wrist. "Doctors. What do they know? They want to cut women open and pump them full of chemicals. A postpartum woman needs light food. Broth and boiled rice. Anything more will make her blood heavy and ruin her milk. I have prepared a thin rice water for her. It is what we give women who are weak."
I walked into the kitchen, which felt completely alien now. The counters had been wiped down with a harsh, pine-scented chemical that made my eyes water. The beautiful, fresh basket of fruit Lillian’s sister had sent—filled with ripe mangoes, berries, and oranges—had been moved to the very top of the cabinets, well out of reach.
"Where is the pain medication, Mom?" I asked, looking at the empty space by the sink where the bottles had been.
"I locked them in the pantry," she said, her voice flat. "She is taking too many of those pills. They make her sleepy. A mother needs to be alert for her child. She will have them every six hours, not when she asks for them."
"Mom, the doctor prescribed them every four hours for the first week!" my voice rose, a sudden spark of anger breaking through my exhaustion. "She has a major surgical wound! She can barely stand up to use the bathroom!"
"And I had three natural births with no medicine at all!" my mother snapped back, her eyes flashing with a sudden, vicious heat. "She has a little pain and she acts like she is dying. You are spoiling her, Adrian. If you keep treating her like a queen, she will never get out of that bed. She is lazy."
I stood in our clean, sterile kitchen, looking at this woman who had carried me for nine months, and for the first time in my life, I felt a deep, sickening wave of disgust. But the habit of obedience was a thick rope tied around my neck. I didn't demand the keys. I didn't tell her to unlock the pantry.
Instead, I took the small cup of lukewarm rice water and a single slice of dry, unbuttered toast, and walked back to our bedroom.
Lillian was awake. She was sitting up against the pillows, her face pale and drawn, her dark hair tangled around her shoulders. She was trying to nurse Mateo, but the baby was latching and unlatching, crying in frustration. Lillian’s eyes were bloodshot, her cheeks wet with tears she hadn't bothered to wipe away.
"Adrian," she whispered, her voice trembling. "My stomach... it feels like it's on fire. I'm two hours past my medication time. Please. Get me the pills."
I set the tray down on the nightstand and sat on the edge of the bed, reaching out to touch her shoulder. She flinched away from my hand, her body stiffening.
"Lillian, I'm sorry," I said, my voice cracking. "My mom... she locked the medication in the pantry. She says she's trying to keep you on a schedule so you don't get addicted."
Lillian looked at me, her eyes wide with an expression of pure, unadulterated disbelief. "Addicted? Adrian, they are ibuprofen and a low-dose narcotic for the first few days! I have a five-inch incision in my abdomen! I can feel the internal stitches pulling every time the baby moves! How can you let her do this to me?"
"I'll get them," I promised, my chest tightening with panic. "I'll go back in there and make her give them to me. Just... please eat some of this rice water. She says it's traditional."
Lillian looked at the small cup of cloudy, gray water and the dry toast. A dry, humorless laugh escaped her lips—a sound that carried more pain than a sob.
"Rice water," she whispered. "I am trying to produce milk for our son, Adrian. I need calories. I need water. I haven't had a full glass of water since yesterday afternoon because your mother won't let me use the kitchen pitcher, and you're too afraid of her to bring me one."
"That's not true!" I protested, though the lie felt heavy and hot in my throat. "I'll get you water right now."
I stood up and went back to the kitchen. My mother was standing by the sink, washing her own tea mug.
"Mom, I need the key to the pantry," I said, trying to inject some authority into my voice. "Lillian is in severe pain. I need to give her her medication."
My mother didn't turn around. She kept scrubbing the ceramic mug with a rough sponge, the sound scraping against my nerves.
"She can wait another hour," Beatriz said. "It is not time."
"It is time, Mom! Give me the key!"
She turned slowly, her face perfectly calm, her dark eyes reflecting the cold fluorescent light of the ceiling. She didn't look angry; she looked bored. She reached into her apron pocket, pulled out the small brass key, and laid it on the counter between us.
"Take it," she said, her voice dropping into a low, venomous whisper. "Take it and give her the pills. Let her sleep all day while your son cries. Let her be weak. But do not ask me to help you when she becomes a permanent invalid because you did not have the strength to be a man in your own house."
I stared at the key on the counter. It was a tiny piece of metal, no longer than my pinky finger, but it felt as heavy as an anchor. My mother was giving me the choice: I could take the key and face her silent, icy rage for the rest of her visit, or I could leave it and preserve the fragile, toxic peace of our household.
I reached out my hand. My fingers hovered over the brass key.
And then, I hesitated.
May you like
In that single, agonizing second of hesitation, my mother smiled. She knew she had won. She didn't even have to fight; she just had to wait for my own fear to defeat me.
I picked up the key, but my hand was shaking so badly I dropped it twice before I could unlock the pantry door. I grabbed the medicine bottles, my heart hammering against my ribs, and hurried back to the bedroom like a thief fleeing the scene of a crime. I didn't look at my mother as I passed her. I couldn't bear to see the satisfaction on her face.
