I opened my eyes.
For a few seconds, I had no idea what was happening. I looked at the clock on the nightstand.
8:03. Then I looked at my husband, Javier.
He was awake too. We both lay there without moving, listening to the sounds coming from the kitchen.
One cabinet door opened.
Then another. A cup clinked softly against the countertop. And finally, Carmen’s voice rang out:
— Javier! Where do you keep the coffee? I slowly sat up in bed.
— Is your mother in our kitchen?
Javier rubbed a hand over his face.
— Looks like it.
— At eight in the morning?
— Yeah.
— On a Sunday?
Javier closed his eyes.
— Yeah.
I stared at him for a moment.
— Did you know she was coming?
This time, Javier opened his eyes immediately.
— No.
That mattered.
Because if Javier had invited his mother over for breakfast without telling me, our conversation would have gone in a completely different direction.
I pulled on my robe and left the bedroom.
Javier followed me.
When we reached the kitchen, Carmen was standing in front of the coffee maker. Her handbag had been left on one of the chairs.
She was still wearing her coat and shoes, and she had that familiar expression on her face—the one she always wore right before explaining to us how we ought to live our lives.
— Good morning, I said.
Carmen looked me up and down.
First my messy hair.
Then my robe.
Then my slippers.
— Good morning, she replied. — Although for some people, apparently the day hasn’t even started yet.
I glanced at the wall clock.
8:07.
— It’s Sunday.
— Exactly.
— What do you mean, “exactly”?
Carmen gestured toward the kitchen.
— It’s already after eight, and there’s no coffee made, no breakfast, nothing.
Javier opened his mouth.
— Mom…
— No, Javier. Someone has to say it.
I rested one hand on the countertop.
— Say what, exactly?
Carmen looked me straight in the eye.
— That a home doesn’t run itself.
— I already know that.
— Doesn’t look like it.
I took a deep breath.
All week, I had been getting up at 6:15.
I worked at an accounting firm, and it took me almost forty minutes to get to the office.
On Monday, I got home at seven.
On Tuesday, at eight.
On Wednesday, I did the grocery shopping.
On Thursday, I cleaned the bathroom.
On Friday, we didn’t have dinner until nearly ten because Javier got home late.
And on Saturday, we had spent half the day cleaning the apartment together.
The only thing I wanted that Sunday was to sleep until nine-thirty.
Maybe even ten, if I got lucky.
But Carmen clearly had other plans.
— How did you get in? I asked.
She frowned.
— What?
— Into our house. How did you get in?
Javier rubbed his face again.
Then I remembered.
The key.
We had given it to Carmen eight months earlier when we went away for a week and she offered to water our plants.
She had never given it back.
— I have a key, she answered, as if it were the most normal thing in the world.
— Right.
— So what’s the problem?
— Nothing. Yet.
Carmen snorted.
— I don’t understand why it bothers you so much that I came to see my son.
— It doesn’t bother me that you came.
— Your face says otherwise.
— What bothers me is you walking into our home unannounced at eight in the morning.
— I didn’t want to wake you.
I looked at Javier.
He looked at the floor.
Then we both looked at Carmen.
— And that’s why you started opening cabinets and calling for Javier from the kitchen? I asked.
Carmen ignored the question.
She opened the refrigerator.
Of course she did.
— Do you have eggs?
— Yes.
She took out the carton.
Then she found the butter.
Then the ham.
— Excellent. I’ll make something in ten minutes.
I closed my eyes for a moment.
— Carmen, leave those.
— Leave what?
— The eggs.
— I’m making breakfast.
— There’s no need.
— Someone has to.
— No, they don’t.
She set the carton down on the countertop.
— Elena, a man shouldn’t wake up on a Sunday morning and find an empty kitchen.
I looked around.
The refrigerator was full.
Bread.
Fruit.
Coffee.
Cereal.
Eggs.
Yogurt.
Cheese.
Even some leftover tortilla from the night before.
The kitchen was anything but empty.
— Javier is forty-three years old, I replied. — If he’s hungry, he knows where the food is.
Carmen’s eyes widened.
— He’s your husband!
— Exactly. My husband.
— Then you should take care of him.
Javier stepped in.
— Mom, Elena takes perfectly good care of me.
— I’m not talking to you.
Javier raised his eyebrows.
— But you’re talking about me.
Carmen waved a hand impatiently.
— You don’t understand what I mean.
— I think I do.
I crossed my arms.
— So do I.
Carmen looked at me again.
— When I was married, I got up before everyone else on Sundays. I made coffee, cooked eggs, made toast, set the table…
— Good for you.
— And nobody had to ask me.
— That’s good too.
— Because I knew my responsibilities.
There it was.
That word.
Responsibilities.
I looked at Javier.
He knew exactly what I was thinking.
— And what exactly are my responsibilities? I asked.
Carmen looked surprised that she even had to explain it.
— To take care of the home. Your husband. To create a family atmosphere.
— And what are Javier’s responsibilities?
Silence.
— Javier works.
I laughed softly.
I couldn’t help it.
— So do I.
— I didn’t say you don’t.
— Then I’ll ask again: what are his responsibilities?
Carmen looked at her son.
Javier rested his hands on the back of a chair.
— Good question.
— Don’t you start too, Carmen said to him.
— I’m not starting anything.
— You never used to argue about things like this.
— You also never used to walk into my house at eight in the morning to check whether my wife had cooked me eggs.
I had to press my lips together to keep from laughing.
Carmen’s face turned completely serious.
— I’m only trying to help.
— No, I said. — You’re trying to prove that I’m doing something wrong.
— That’s in your head.
— You walked in here and the first thing you said to me was basically that a normal woman would already be making breakfast.
— Because it’s true.
— No. That’s your opinion. — It’s common sense.
— No. It’s a routine you chose to have in your own home.
Carmen was silent for a few seconds.
Then she pointed at Javier.
— Look at him. He must be hungry.
Javier looked at her.
— I’m not.
— Of course you are.
— Mom, I think I know whether I’m hungry.
— You haven’t eaten anything.
— Because I just woke up.
— Exactly.
Javier sighed.
— I’ll make coffee.
Carmen smiled with satisfaction and looked at me.
— See?
— I do, I replied. — I see a grown man making his own coffee.
Her smile disappeared immediately. Javier laughed.
— Elena…
— What? I’m just describing the situation.
Carmen sat down at the table.
— Things weren’t like this before.
— What things? Javier asked as he poured water into the coffee maker.
— Women used to take better care of their families.
I leaned against the countertop.
— Do you know what I did yesterday?
Carmen didn’t answer.
— I did two loads of laundry. Cleaned the bathroom. Went to the supermarket. Changed the sheets. Made dinner.
— Nobody said you don’t do anything.
— And Javier vacuumed the apartment, cleaned the kitchen, took out the trash, and fixed one of the cabinet doors.
Carmen looked at her son.
— You cleaned the kitchen?
Javier turned toward her.
— Yes. Her expression was almost comical.
— Why?
— Because it was dirty.
— But Elena…
— Elena cleaned the bathroom.
— She could have cleaned the kitchen afterward too.
Javier set the spoon down on the countertop.
— Mom, do you hear what you’re saying?
— What did I say now? — That Elena should clean the bathroom first, then the kitchen, while I do… what exactly?
Carmen opened her mouth.
Nothing came out.
Javier continued:
— Sit on the couch?
— Don’t exaggerate.
— I’m just asking.
— You do other things.
— Like what?
Silence again.
This time, I couldn’t hide my smile.
Carmen noticed.
— Don’t smirk like that.
— I’m not smirking.
— You enjoy it when my son takes your side against me.
— No. I enjoy it when he thinks for himself. That made her stand up.
— You always do this.
— Do what?
— Turn him against me.
Javier immediately turned toward her.
— Mom, enough.
His voice changed.
There was no humor in it now.
Carmen noticed too.
— What?
— Don’t ever say that again.
— I’m only saying what I see.
— No. You’re blaming Elena because I disagree with you. — Ever since you got married…
— Ever since I got married, I’m still exactly the same person.
— No, you’re not, Javier.
— Yes, I am, Mom. I just have my own home and my own life now.
The kitchen fell completely silent.
The coffee maker began to hiss.
Carmen lowered her gaze.
For the first time since she had walked in, she looked like she didn’t know what to say.
I decided not to add anything.
Javier poured three cups of coffee.
He placed one in front of his mother.
One in front of me.
And kept the third for himself.
Then he opened a cabinet and took out some bread.
— Want toast? he asked me.
— Yes.
He put four slices in the toaster.
Carmen watched the entire process. — I can make you eggs, she finally said.
— No need, Javier replied. — It’s no trouble. — Mom.
— What?
— If you want eggs, make some for yourself.
Carmen stared at him for a few seconds.
— I’m not hungry.
Javier and I looked at each other.
We didn’t say anything.
But we were thinking exactly the same thing.
Five minutes later, we were eating toast and drinking coffee.
Carmen was still sitting across from us.
Then my eyes fell on her handbag.
And I remembered the key.
— Carmen.
— What?
— You need to give us our key back.
Her cup froze halfway to her lips.
— Why?
— Because you were supposed to use it in emergencies and to water the plants when we travel. Not to walk in without warning.
Her expression changed immediately.
— So now you’re taking the key away from me?
— Yes.
— I’m Javier’s mother.
— We know.
— And what if something happens?
— Call us.
— What if you don’t answer?
Javier stepped in.
— Then we’re probably sleeping.
I couldn’t help laughing.
Carmen glared at him.
— Very funny.
— Mom, Elena is right. Give us the key.
— I can’t believe this.
She opened her handbag with sharp, irritated movements. She pulled out her glasses.
A packet of tissues.
Her wallet. And finally, the key.
She placed it on the table.
— Here.
I picked it up.
— Thank you.
— I hope you don’t regret this someday.
— If we ever need someone to water the plants again, we can lend it to you. Javier laughed again.
Carmen didn’t.
At least not for a few seconds.
Then she took a sip of coffee. — This is too strong. — Your son made it, I replied.
Carmen looked at Javier.
— You put too much coffee in.
Javier raised both hands.
— Finally, something that’s actually my fault.
This time, I laughed so hard I nearly spilled my coffee.
Even Carmen had to hide a small smile.
But we still weren’t quite done.
At about quarter to nine, Carmen stood up to leave. She put on her coat, picked up her handbag, and walked toward the door.
Before leaving, she turned back to us.
— I can come for breakfast next week.
Javier and I looked at each other.
— You can, he said.
Carmen smiled.
— Great. I’ll come at eight.
— No, we both said at the same time.
She frowned.
— Then what time? I looked at Javier.
— Ten-thirty, I said.
— That’s not breakfast anymore!
— In this house, on Sundays, it is.
Carmen shook her head.
— I don’t know how you can sleep that long.
— Lots of practice, Javier replied.
She opened the door.
— Fine. Ten-thirty.
She stepped into the hallway.
Then stopped. — And I have to call before I come?
— Yes, we said together again.
Carmen snorted.
— So many rules.
I smiled.
— Only two: let us know before you come, and don’t wake anyone up just to check whether your son has eaten breakfast.
— Three, Javier added.
— What’s the third?
Javier smiled.
— If you’re hungry at eight in the morning, make your own breakfast.
Carmen looked at him, offended. Then at me.
And finally, she just shook her head and left.
When we closed the door, Javier was quiet for a few seconds.
Then he looked at me.
— Going back to bed?
I checked the clock.
8:48.
— Absolutely.
— What about breakfast?
I picked up a slice of toast from the plate.
— One normal woman has already done more than enough for today.
Javier burst out laughing.
And that morning, we realized something we should have made clear much sooner.
The problem had never been breakfast. Or coffee. Or eggs.
It wasn’t even the fact that we liked to sleep later on Sundays.
The problem was the idea that Carmen, simply because she was Javier’s mother, still had the right to walk into our home whenever she wanted, judge our habits, and decide what I was supposed to do in order to be a “normal woman.”
She could care about her son.
She could give him advice if he asked for it.
She could come over for breakfast.
But our home had a door.
And from that Sunday on, that door came with one very simple rule:
Before you come in—knock.