The Woman Who Kept Visiting Her Ex-Mother-in-Law

The smell of disinfectant hits me every time I push open the door to Room 304.
Two months now — three visits a week — and I still can’t get used to it.

But when I see Marta lying there, her fragile frame tangled in tubes and wires, I know there’s nowhere else I’d rather be.

“Hello, mother-in-law,” I whisper, setting a vase of fresh flowers on the windowsill — her forever pot of color in this gray room.

Her eyelids flutter. Her gaze, once full of life, struggles to find me.
“Lucía…” she breathes. “You didn’t have to come.”

“I know,” I say, pulling the chair closer. “But I’m here anyway.”

She looks at me with that expression I’ve learned to read — gratitude, laced with guilt. I take her hand, thinner each week, and start talking about my day. About the weather. About the neighbor’s dog who keeps stealing shoes. I wet her lips with a damp cloth and smile when she tries to return it.

After a while, she asks the question she always asks:
“Martín?”

Her son.
My ex-husband.
The man who left me for a coworker — and who hasn’t visited his mother in nearly three weeks.

I swallow. “I don’t know, Marta. We don’t talk.”

She squeezes my hand weakly.
“You shouldn’t be here,” she murmurs. “He… he hurt you. What are you doing here?”

“What your son did,” I say softly, “has nothing to do with you and me.”

Her eyes fill with tears. I rummage through my purse for a tissue.

“But you’re not part of the family anymore,” she says, her voice breaking.

That one hurts — more than I expect.
I sit on the edge of her bed and take a deep breath.

“Do you know what, Marta? For five years, I came to your house every Sunday. You taught me to make your gnocchi. You held me when I lost my baby. You defended me when Martín criticized my cooking. You treated me like a daughter long before he ever treated me like a wife.”

“Lucía…”

“I didn’t just fall in love with your son, Marta. I fell in love with you. With your laugh. Your strength. The way you brewed mate just right and sang old tangos without missing a word. That kind of love doesn’t end because of a divorce.”

She breaks then — quietly, painfully. I brush her hair back, weakened by chemotherapy, and whisper, “It’s okay.”

“My own son doesn’t come to see me,” she sobs. “And you do. You don’t owe me anything.”

“I owe you everything,” I tell her. “You taught me what real love looks like — not the kind between lovers, but the kind that stays even when everything else falls apart.”

We sit in silence for a long time. Her breathing slows. Her hand rests inside mine until she drifts off to sleep.

When I finally leave, I run into the night nurse at the door.
“Are you the daughter-in-law?” she asks with a smile.

I hesitate, just for a moment.
“I’m Lucía,” I say. “Monday, Wednesday, and Friday.”

Her smile widens.
“Oh, yes. Mrs. Marta talks about you all the time. Says you’re the only good thing her son ever gave her.”

The words follow me all the way down the corridor, warm and heavy at once.

In the parking lot, my phone buzzes.
A message from Martín.

“I heard you’re still visiting my mother. You don’t have to do that. You’re not family anymore.”

I read it twice. Then I delete it.

He’s right about one thing:
I’m not his anymore.

But Marta?
Marta is still mine.

Every time I push open that hospital door, every time I hold her hand and hear her whisper my name, I’m reminded — family isn’t always written in blood or bound by papers.

It’s built in moments.
In presence.
In choosing to stay.

As I start the car, the radio hums to life. An old tango plays — one of Marta’s favorites.

I smile.
Tomorrow I’ll bring her corn pudding. Her favorite.

Some bonds don’t break with divorce papers.
They survive through loyalty, through love, through quiet choices made in hospital rooms that smell of disinfectant.

And as the city lights blur past my window, I think to myself —
some families are chosen… and I chose to stay.