at work. Gus knew, but he did not have the guts to tell me. But my father couldn’t bear his daughter being made a fool of and couldn’t hold it in any longer.
“I’m not telling you what to do, mija ,” he said. “That’s totally up to you. You know I’ve never butted into your relationships, but I don’t think it’s right. Especially considering everything you’ve been through, especially in this past year, and everything you did for him when he was locked up. Everyone is talking about it where he works. You need to make a decision and fix this shit.”
I could feel my heart breaking, but I didn’t want to show that to my father. I told him, “I will handle it, Daddy. Don’t worry. I will take care of this motherfucker.” As soon as I uttered those words, I felt myself turn from sad to furious. I stomped out the back door of the record store. How could Juan do this to me? I asked myself. I loved him! I was there for him when he was in jail. I had even made his child-support payments during that time. I married him to save his ass from deportation. How could he do this to me after I had gone through so much pain?
As much as I wanted to, I decided not to kill him. It was what I always thought I would do if a man cheated on me. I knew that if I confronted him about it and screamed, fought, or cried, it wouldn’t do anything. I had to find a way to really get back at him. As I drove back to Compton, I thought and thought about what move I would make. Marisela’s CD was playing in the car stereo as I went over options in my head.
I decided not to say a word. Instead, I came up with a plan. First and foremost, I would make the fucker fall in love with me again. I just needed two months.
I hired a private investigator. He videotaped various days of Juan’s adventures with the putas at work. I found out which motels they would go to. I learned that he would throw away the lunches I’d prepared for him at 4:00 a.m. and go out to lunch with the hoes instead. “Qué pendeja soy,” I said to myself.
That summer was sad and emotionally draining for me. All the time my husband was cheating, Gus, my loving brother, the one who’d taught me to defend myself, the one who always called me beautiful, had been aware of what was going on and never told me. It had been going on for months and he said he couldn’t find a way to tell me. He too was from the hood and said that he had learned that a man should not rat on another man. He said he wasn’t and would never be a little ratting bitch. He loved and adored me and didn’t want to hurt me with the knowledge of Juan’s infidelity, so he opted to not mention it. I didn’t understand his point of view. I was hurt. Gus and I stopped speaking for eight months and ten days. It was painful and it killed me inside to be at family reunions, and we wouldn’t cross words with each other. We wouldn’t even look at each other. It was a horrible feeling. I was going through hell. In less than a year I had been raped, I had found out about the sexual abuse of my sister and daughters, my husband was cheating on me, and now I wasn’t speaking to my brother. My parents always taught us that family was first. With that in mind, and because I so terribly missed my brother’s hugs and kisses, I made the first move to mend our relationship. God works in mysterious ways. That experience taught us quite a bit. We haven’t fought, argued, or disagreed on anything since.
As much as I was hurting during that time, I enjoyed knowing that I was steps ahead of my husband and that soon he’d be in for a big surprise. For those two months I dressed in the skimpy outfits he liked, put on makeup, and did my hair every day. I gave him foot massages when he got home and sex every night. By September I hadtransferred the registrations of both vehicles to my name and paid off all of our credit-card debt. Then I was prepared to let him have it. It was going to go down my way. It was going to
“I’m not telling you what to do, mija ,” he said. “That’s totally up to you. You know I’ve never butted into your relationships, but I don’t think it’s right. Especially considering everything you’ve been through, especially in this past year, and everything you did for him when he was locked up. Everyone is talking about it where he works. You need to make a decision and fix this shit.”
I could feel my heart breaking, but I didn’t want to show that to my father. I told him, “I will handle it, Daddy. Don’t worry. I will take care of this motherfucker.” As soon as I uttered those words, I felt myself turn from sad to furious. I stomped out the back door of the record store. How could Juan do this to me? I asked myself. I loved him! I was there for him when he was in jail. I had even made his child-support payments during that time. I married him to save his ass from deportation. How could he do this to me after I had gone through so much pain?
As much as I wanted to, I decided not to kill him. It was what I always thought I would do if a man cheated on me. I knew that if I confronted him about it and screamed, fought, or cried, it wouldn’t do anything. I had to find a way to really get back at him. As I drove back to Compton, I thought and thought about what move I would make. Marisela’s CD was playing in the car stereo as I went over options in my head.
I decided not to say a word. Instead, I came up with a plan. First and foremost, I would make the fucker fall in love with me again. I just needed two months.
I hired a private investigator. He videotaped various days of Juan’s adventures with the putas at work. I found out which motels they would go to. I learned that he would throw away the lunches I’d prepared for him at 4:00 a.m. and go out to lunch with the hoes instead. “Qué pendeja soy,” I said to myself.
That summer was sad and emotionally draining for me. All the time my husband was cheating, Gus, my loving brother, the one who’d taught me to defend myself, the one who always called me beautiful, had been aware of what was going on and never told me. It had been going on for months and he said he couldn’t find a way to tell me. He too was from the hood and said that he had learned that a man should not rat on another man. He said he wasn’t and would never be a little ratting bitch. He loved and adored me and didn’t want to hurt me with the knowledge of Juan’s infidelity, so he opted to not mention it. I didn’t understand his point of view. I was hurt. Gus and I stopped speaking for eight months and ten days. It was painful and it killed me inside to be at family reunions, and we wouldn’t cross words with each other. We wouldn’t even look at each other. It was a horrible feeling. I was going through hell. In less than a year I had been raped, I had found out about the sexual abuse of my sister and daughters, my husband was cheating on me, and now I wasn’t speaking to my brother. My parents always taught us that family was first. With that in mind, and because I so terribly missed my brother’s hugs and kisses, I made the first move to mend our relationship. God works in mysterious ways. That experience taught us quite a bit. We haven’t fought, argued, or disagreed on anything since.
As much as I was hurting during that time, I enjoyed knowing that I was steps ahead of my husband and that soon he’d be in for a big surprise. For those two months I dressed in the skimpy outfits he liked, put on makeup, and did my hair every day. I gave him foot massages when he got home and sex every night. By September I hadtransferred the registrations of both vehicles to my name and paid off all of our credit-card debt. Then I was prepared to let him have it. It was going to go down my way. It was going to
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