The fine rain fell on the cobblestone streets of Guadalajara, reflecting the yellow lanterns. Inside an elegant house in the Colonia Americana neighborhood, the air was thick with tension.
Álvaro Mendoza, a young and ambitious businessman, paced the living room, his face flushed with fury.
In front of him, his wife, Camila Ramírez, was on the floor, trembling, her eyes swollen from crying.
“I didn’t do anything wrong!” she sobbed. “I just sent a little money to my mom. She’s my mother, Álvaro! What’s wrong with helping her?”
He raised his voice:
“Nothing wrong? And hide it from me? In this house, I’m the one who decides! If you like to act on your own so much, let your father come teach you some manners again.”
Without thinking twice, he picked up his phone and dialed a number.
The voice on the other end sounded deep and measured, like an approaching storm.
“Don Ramiro, excuse the time, but come pick up your daughter. I think she needs a new education.”
There were a few seconds of silence. Then, the answer:
“Okay. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”
Álvaro smiled arrogantly. In his mind, he was already picturing the scene: the father-in-law, furious, scolding Camila, asking her to return to her parents’ house “to reflect.”
But he had no idea what was really going to happen.
Fifteen minutes later, the sound of an old pickup truck broke the silence of the night.
Álvaro straightened his shirt, with an air of superiority, and opened the door.
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