The millionaire’s mother was getting worse every day, until the cleaning lady intervened and saved everything.

Doña Elena, Ricardo’s mother, had moved in from Oaxaca months earlier. Seventy-two, a former seamstress, strong-willed and self-made. She had raised her son alone after his father vanished, sewing late into the night so Ricardo would never lack shoes or books. Bringing her into the mansion was Ricardo’s way of repaying a lifelong debt.

Despite hardship, Doña Elena never lost her generosity. She spoke to Leticia like family—asked about her children Mateo and Julia, remembered their birthdays, secretly offered cornbread she baked when Sofía wasn’t around because “the kitchen should smell like a home.”

And then there was Sofía.
Ricardo’s wife moved through the house as though it belonged to her breath. Always flawless, always scented, even in workout clothes. Born into prestige, fluent in three languages, armed with a refined elegance that made others feel intrusive by simply existing. Leticia could never pinpoint when Sofía’s chill hardened into hostility—but it intensified the moment Doña Elena arrived. As if a humble woman among luxury was a blemish that refused to fade.

That morning, Leticia knocked on Doña Elena’s bedroom door. A frail voice answered. Inside, the older woman looked pale, exhausted, eyes ringed with darkness.

“My dear… something I ate didn’t sit right. My head is heavy. My stomach feels like stone.”

Leticia adjusted her pillows, fear tightening her chest. This wasn’t new. For weeks, Doña Elena had suffered dizziness, nausea, confusion. Doctors blamed age, stress, vitamins—nothing concrete. Nothing explained why, after certain afternoons, she would awaken as if her body had been quietly shut down.

Leticia wasn’t trained in medicine, but life had sharpened her instincts. And one pattern repeated relentlessly: Doña Elena always worsened after drinking the tea Sofía prepared—served with politeness, reassurance, and that unsettling smile.

At first, Leticia dismissed the thought. Who was she to suspect the employer? But intuition born from years of watching doesn’t remain silent for long.

In the hallway, she nearly collided with Sofía.

“How is she?” Sofía asked casually.

“She’s sick again. Nauseous all night.”

“It’s her age,” Sofía replied impatiently. “I’ll make her tea later. Routine is important.”

For a split second, Leticia caught something in Sofía’s eyes—satisfaction, subtle but unmistakable. Her stomach turned. Routine, she realized, could be a weapon.

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