SPANISH
A continuación la primera parte, que he titulado:
Un pasado tortuoso
Mi madre se casó a los 16 años. Mi padre tenía solo 18 años y desde que tengo memoria siempre me pareció un hombre irresponsable. A pesar de las facilidades que tuvo para estudiar, ya que mi abuela era profesora, nunca quiso avanzar más allá del octavo grado. Realmente no podía esperarse mucho de una unión así.
Al poco tiempo de casados, comenzaron las dificultades. El pasatiempo favorito de mi padre era jugar dominó y tomar licor con sus amigos. Los sábados en la tarde se la pasaba con ellos y por la noche se iban a un bar cercano a nuestro hogar, donde pasaban horas hablando y riendo hasta la madrugada. En esas parrandas gastaba casi todo su sueldo que ganaba como empleado en la compañía eléctrica. Como solo ganaba el salario mínimo no era mucho lo que quedaba para pagar los servicios y para comer. Al cumplir dos años de casados, nací yo en medio de una pobreza terrible.
Afortunadamente me mantuve durante casi un año con la leche materna y esto fue lo que me permitió ser una niña saludable.
Recuerdo que desde que empecé a comprender el lenguaje de los adultos, presencié fuertes disputas, parecía que en mi casa lo normal fueran las expresiones subidas de tono porque no había otra forma conocida por ellos para comunicarse entre sí. No sé cuando empezó a pegarle, la primera vez que fui consciente me asusté tanto que me puse a llorar desconsoladamente. A ninguno de ellos pareció interesarle porque siguieron su rutina normal y nadie se acercó a consolarme.
Cuando tenía aproximadamente siete años ocurrió un hecho que quedó grabado en mi mente para siempre. Mi padre llegó en la madrugada, estaba bastante ebrio. Mi madre se levantó a atenderlo, pero habría sido preferible que se quedara tranquila en su cama.
Empezaron a discutir acaloradamente en su habitación. Me acerqué silenciosamente para escuchar pues la puerta estaba entreabierta. Mi madre permanecía acostada y él se encontraba de pié a un lado de la misma hablándole en términos ofensivos y ella le contestaba también con improperios. De repente ella se levantó y se puso al frente de él y no pasó mucho tiempo cuando pasaron de los agravios a los golpes, y como era de esperarse mi padre le pegó tan fuerte que ella cayó aparatosamente al piso recibiendo un impacto en la cabeza y abriéndose una herida por la que empezó a derramar mucha sangre.
Lo vi asustado por primera vez tratando de auxiliarla pero sin mucho éxito. Me fui rápidamente a la cama muy impresionada por lo que había visto y me hice la dormida porque temía ser golpeada por él. Estaba muy asustada. El vino apresurado a despertarme y a decirme que ella había sufrido un accidente y que la iba llevar al hospital. Eran casi las tres de la madrugada y a esa hora era casi imposible conseguir transporte. El salió a la calle y al poco rato regresó en un taxi. No sé cómo pudo conseguirlo, quizá la providencia de Dios permitió que en ese momento pasara ese vehículo para que mi madre fuera atendida rápidamente.
Fuente pixabay by aamiraimer
Me quedé sola en casa sin poder dormir, ya que mi cuerpecito temblaba de miedo y de angustia. Esperé con los ojos bien abiertos hasta que amaneció. A eso de las ocho de la mañana, apareció mi padre.
Se veía afligido y preocupado. Su rostro estaba demacrado y tenia crecida la barba, nunca antes lo había visto así, era como si el peso de la culpa lo hubiera hecho pedazos.
Se acercó lentamente a mi cama y dijo:
_ Tu madre está bien, no te preocupes, pronto volverá a casa.
Transcurrieron exactamente tres días. Durante ellos tuve que afrontar la responsabilidad de ama de casa con tan solo siete años de edad y en varias ocasiones permanecía sola hasta altas horas de la noche, porque mi padre cuando salía del trabajo se iba directamente a visitar a mi madre al hospital.
Por esos días se notaba muy cambiado, quizás arrepentido de lo que había hecho y en mi surgió la esperanza que se convirtiera en el padre que todos los niños desean: responsable, cariñoso, que esté pendiente de las necesidades de la casa, que eduque y aconseje, en fin que ame y haga lo mejor para sus hijos. Pero qué difícil es encontrar en el mundo un padre así, y que lejos se encontraba el mío de serlo.
En ese tiempo desconocía que tenía un hermano menor de dos años de edad. El no era hijo de mi madre, sino de una mujer que mi padre conoció en la compañía de electricidad donde trabajaba. Era una de las chicas que hacían la limpieza.
El día que mi padre apareció con él, fue un día especialmente difícil para mí. Mi madre me había castigado injustamente sin haber cometido ninguna falta. Ella había dejado un dinero cuando fue a buscarlo para comprar comida, este había desaparecido. Estaba segura de que el culpable era mi padre; ese dinero era muy importante para nosotros, ya que la nevera estaba vacía y no quedaba comida para los próximos días.
Después del castigo, me encerré a llorar desconsoladamente en mi habitación, pero daba igual que llorara o no, mi madre seguía indiferente conmigo como si yo no existiera.
Ya casi al anochecer, apareció mi padre con un hermoso niño de dos años. Trajo dos bolsas llenas de comida y creo que eso fue lo que permitió que fuera bien recibido. Nuestros estómagos estaban llegando a su punto máximo de de resistencia y rápidamente casi sin saludarlo, mi madre y yo estábamos sentadas comiendo de lo que había en las bolsas.
Al rato los cuatro estábamos sentados a la mesa; el permanecía callado mirándonos atentamente. Yo no levantaba la vista, concentrándome en lo que me estaba comiendo, cundo terminamos el dijo:
Elizza, este es Miguel, tu hermano menor.
Me quedé petrificada. En ese momento no entendía nada. Si era mi hermano menor, ¿porqué no lo había sabido antes? ¿porqué solo lo venía a conocer cuando tenía dos años? Con el tiempo comprendí la infidelidad de mi padre y la inmadurez de mi madre, ya que en vez de reaccionar ante tanta indignidad y maltrato ella aceptó al niño en su casa como si fuera su propio hijo. Soportaba estoicamente su destino, como si ese fuera someterse a un hombre sin consideración y respeto alguno hacia ella. Me propuse estudiar para superarme y estar preparada para enfrentar el futuro que me tocara, convencida de que mi vida sería distinta a la de ella.
Sin embargo, mi aspiración se echó a perder por la falta de recursos económicos. La falta de apoyo de mis padres que en su ignorancia consideraban poco práctico que una mujer estudiara, y por los problemas que existían entre ellos, mi futuro se tornó oscuro. Mi hogar era el principal escollo, y los próximos años serían los más oscuros de mi vida, marcando mi existencia para lo que iba a vivir.
Esta historia continuará…
El banner es de mi autoría y lo realicé en Canva
La imagen acá presentada fue tomada de pixabay acá les dejo el enlace: https://pixabay.com/es/photos/ni%c3%b1a-ni%c3%b1o-retrato-triste-pobre-2529907/
ENGLISH
This story describes with simplicity and respect an experience that can happen anywhere, with anyone.
The purpose of the story is to illustrate the life change that can occur when you want to change the direction of your life regardless of your family background.
This story can be best enjoyed if you use the techniques of visualization and identification, which consist of forming a picture in your mind of the scenes as they appear and through personal experience with one of the characters with whom you identify.
Below is the first part, which I have entitled:
A tortuous past
My mother got married at the age of 16. My father was only 18 years old and for as long as I can remember he always seemed to me an irresponsible man. Despite the facilities he had to study, since my grandmother was a teacher, he never wanted to advance beyond the eighth grade. One could not really expect much from such a union.
Soon after they were married, the difficulties began. My father's favorite pastime was playing dominoes and drinking liquor with his friends. On Saturday afternoons he would spend time with them and at night they would go to a bar near our home, where they would spend hours talking and laughing until the wee hours of the morning. In those parties he spent almost all his salary as an employee of the electric company. Since he only earned minimum wage, there was not much left over to pay for utilities and food. After two years of marriage, I was born into terrible poverty.
Fortunately, I was breastfed for almost a year and this is what allowed me to be a healthy child.
I remember that since I began to understand the language of adults, I witnessed strong disputes, it seemed that in my house the normal thing was the expressions raised in tone because there was no other way known by them to communicate with each other. I don't know when he started hitting her, the first time I was aware of it I was so scared that I started crying inconsolably. None of them seemed to care because they went about their normal routine and no one came to comfort me.
When I was about seven years old an event occurred that was etched in my mind forever. My father arrived in the early hours of the morning, he was quite drunk. My mother got up to attend to him, but it would have been preferable for her to stay quietly in bed.
They began to argue heatedly in their room. I quietly approached to listen as the door was ajar. My mother was lying down and he was standing on one side of her, talking to her in offensive terms, and she was answering him with expletives. Suddenly she got up and stood in front of him and it wasn't long before they went from insults to blows, and as was to be expected my father hit her so hard that she fell heavily to the floor, receiving a blow to the head and opening a wound from which she began to spill a lot of blood.
I saw him scared for the first time trying to help her but without much success. I quickly went to bed very impressed by what I had seen and pretended to sleep because I was afraid of being hit by him. I was very frightened. He came in a hurry to wake me up and tell me that she had suffered an accident and that he was going to take her to the hospital. It was almost three o'clock in the morning and at that hour it was almost impossible to get transportation. He went out into the street and soon after returned in a cab. I don't know how he was able to get it, perhaps God's providence allowed that vehicle to pass by at that moment so that my mother could be attended to quickly.
Fuente pixabay by aamiraimer
I stayed home alone without being able to sleep, as my little body trembled with fear and anguish. I waited with my eyes wide open until dawn. At about eight o'clock in the morning, my father appeared.
He looked distressed and worried. His face was haggard and his beard had grown, I had never seen him like that before, it was as if the weight of guilt had torn him to pieces.
He slowly approached my bed and said:
_ Your mother is fine, don't worry, she'll be home soon.
Exactly three days passed. During those three days I had to face the responsibility of being a housewife at only seven years of age, and on several occasions I was alone until late at night, because my father went straight to visit my mother in the hospital when he got off work.
During those days he seemed very different, perhaps repentant for what he had done, and I hoped that he would become the father that all children want: responsible, loving, attentive to the needs of the house, who educates and advises, in short, who loves and does what is best for his children. But how difficult it is to find such a father in the world, and how far mine was from being one.
At that time I was unaware that I had a younger brother who was two years old. He was not my mother's son, but the son of a woman my father met at the electrical company where he worked. She was one of the girls who did the cleaning.
The day my father showed up with him was a particularly difficult day for me. My mother had unjustly punished me for no fault of my own. She had left some money behind when she went to get it to buy food, it had disappeared. I was sure that the culprit was my father; that money was very important to us, as the fridge was empty and there was no food left for the next few days.
After the punishment, I locked myself in my room to cry inconsolably, but it didn't matter whether I cried or not, my mother remained indifferent to me as if I didn't exist.
Almost at nightfall, my father appeared with a beautiful two-year-old boy. He brought two bags full of food and I think that's what allowed him to be well received. Our stomachs were reaching the point of maximum resistance and quickly, almost without greeting him, my mother and I were sitting down eating what was in the bags.
After a while the four of us were seated at the table; he remained silent, looking at us attentively. I did not look up, concentrating on what I was eating, when we finished he said:
Elizza, this is Miguel, your younger brother.
I was petrified. At that moment I didn't understand anything. If he was my younger brother, why hadn't I known about it before, why did I only meet him when I was two years old? With time I understood my father's infidelity and my mother's immaturity, since instead of reacting to such indignity and mistreatment, she accepted the child into her home as if he were her own son. She stoically endured her fate, as if that was to submit to a man without any consideration or respect for her. I decided to study in order to better myself and be prepared to face the future, convinced that my life would be different from hers.
However, my aspiration was ruined by the lack of economic resources. The lack of support from my parents, who in their ignorance conside red it impractical for a woman to study, and the problems that existed between them, my future became dark. My home was the main stumbling block, and the next few years would be the darkest of my life, marking my existence for what I was going to live.
This story will continue...
The banner is my own creation and I made it in Canva
The image presented here was taken from pixabay here is the link: https://pixabay.com/es/photos/ni%c3%b1a-ni%c3%b1o-retrato-triste-pobre-2529907/
