I earn 4,000 euros a month, but I have not dared to send a single euro to my parents, saving the money to buy a house and a car for my wife and children to live comfortably.

I’m sitting in my office, looking at the balance that has just been paid into my account: 5,000 euros. A figure dreamed of by many. At 32 years old, I am a sales manager for a large business group, with a shiny car and a luxury apartment in the centre of Madrid valued at 200,000 euros. From the outside, everyone thinks I have a perfect life. But there’s a secret I’ve never told anyone: although I earn several thousand a month, for the last five years I haven’t sent a single euro to my parents who live in a village.

It’s not that I’m ungrateful, or at least I’ve fooled myself into believing that I’m not. I come from a humble family, my parents worked very hard so that I could study. The obsession with poverty pushed me to make money with the intensity of a butterfly in the flame. I thought that my parents in the village “needed little” and that “with the basics they survived”. All the money I earned was dedicated to maintaining our small home and pampering my wife and children.

My wife, Elena, is the daughter of a wealthy family in the city. Marrying her made me want to prove that I wasn’t a mediocre man. I bought a nice house, a luxury car and filled Elena’s closet with designer clothes. She wanted to travel through Europe, I said yes. He wanted to change his car, he also agreed. She wanted her to be proud to her friends that she had a successful and caring husband.

My parents live in an old tiled house built in the 90s, which is already starting to deteriorate. In the rainy season, water falls drop by drop on the old ceramic floor. My mother called one day, in a hesitant voice: “Carlos, the kitchen ceiling is very damaged, could you…?” I replied: “Mom, call some mason from the village to fix it provisionally, I am busy with a project. Lately I’ve been dedicating the money to buying a new car for Elena so she doesn’t have to walk in the sun. Now I don’t have much to spare.” My mother sighed and hung up. I didn’t know how much pain and sadness that sigh contained.

This year I decided to take my wife and children to the village from December 27 so that my parents could be happy. I just said, “Honey, this year we’re going to spend the holidays in the village from the 27th, I want to prepare and repair the kitchen roof for the grandparents. It’s been a long time since we’ve spent a full New Year there,” Elena, who was painting her nails, stopped and looked at me as if she had spoken to an alien.

– “Is it a joke or are you serious? Going to the village? Since the 27th?” – his voice was high-pitched and full of annoyance.

– “So what? My parents wait for us all year round. Last year we went to the beach, the year before to your mother’s family. This year it’s mine,” I explained calmly.

Elena frowned and dropped the polish on the table with a “clack!”: “I’m telling you clearly: I’m not going to that club. The house is damp and run-down, the bathroom smells horrible and it’s outside, bathing is chaos. At night the mosquitoes are unbearable, little Lucas is all bitten. I’ve already booked flights to Singapore for the whole family. The parties are for resting and enjoying, no one gets into a miserable place like that to torture themselves.”

I was stunned. “Den”? “Stinky”? “Miserable place”? That was the place where I was born, where my parents sacrificed themselves to raise me.

“Speak with respect! That’s my parents’ house, your husband’s land,” I shouted, holding back the anger that was boiling inside me.

Elena stood up abruptly, hands on her hips. Her air of a pampered lady transformed into pure insolence: “Am I wrong? Look, you earn thousands of euros a month, and you want your wife and children to go there? Your parents are strange; they know their son has money and they don’t fix up the house to make it look nice, leaving it in ruins and embarrassing everyone. In short, I’m not going! If you want, go and pay homage to them by yourself. The children and I are going to Singapore. We get to enjoy the luxury, not get stuck in that hole.”

“¡Bam!”

A slap echoed through the luxurious living room. For the first time in five years of marriage, I hit my wife. Elena clutched her cheek, her eyes wide, frozen.

I looked at my hand and then at my beautiful wife, whose twisted soul lay before me. The anger faded, replaced by a terrifying chill and a brutal clarity.

It turned out that my blind indulgence had created a selfish and ungrateful wife. My poverty complex led me to treat her like a queen, and she despised my roots. What good is it to me to earn thousands of euros if my parents live in a dilapidated house and my wife considers it an insult?

I went to the desk, took out a blank sheet of paper and a pen.

– “What are you doing? You dare hit me? I’ll tell my parents!” Elena shouted.

I didn’t answer. I wrote decisively. Five minutes later I placed the paper in front of her.

DIVORCE APPLICATION.

– “Sign right now,” I said in an icy voice.

– “Are you crazy? You want to get a divorce over a trip to the countryside? Are you going to abandon your wife and children for your old rural parents?” he shouted, beginning to show fear.

“Shut up!” I roared, my fiery gaze silencing her. “You’re right, my house is dilapidated and stinks. But it’s where I grew up, where your husband became someone who earns money for you to enjoy. I was ungrateful to my parents. I earn thousands, build houses, and buy cars for you, but my parents get the short end of the stick every time the wind blows. I was wrong. And my biggest mistake was marrying someone who values ​​money more than family and despises his in-laws, like you.”

I threw the car keys and the bank card I had given him onto the table.

“This house was mine before we got married. The car, too. I put the money on this card. Now get out of my house. If you want to enjoy the city and luxury, go to your parents’ house. I’m going back to my ‘den’ to fix up the house and take care of my parents. This is where we part ways.”

Elena paled, trembling. She hadn’t expected such determination. She thought I was a compliant husband who would give in with a few words. She had reached the ultimate limit of a man: honor and filial respect.

– “Carlos… I’m sorry… I was wrong… don’t do it…” – she cried, throwing herself into my arms and hugging my legs.

I pushed her aside, and decisively took her suitcase from the bedroom and threw it at the door.

– “It’s too late. Lost respect can’t be regained. Leave.”

That night I drove to the village. When I arrived at the old house, I saw my mother collecting water from the leak with a flickering lamp. Tears welled up in my eyes.

I ran towards her and hugged her.

– “Mom, I’m back. I’m sorry… I’m going to build you a new house…”

My mother stroked my head like when I was a child: “Son, just the fact that you’re back is enough, why are you crying like a child?”

This New Year there was no city daughter-in-law or lavish trips, but my parents will be living in a new house. I lost a dazzling marriage, but I reclaimed my dignity and my filial duty before it was too late.