The matriarch, Doña Elena, hadn’t closed her eyes all night. The lavish wedding of her only son, Mateo, to the sweet yet still unfamiliar Sofía had ended at dawn, leaving the house in chaos, saturated with the smells of food, liquor, and the sweat of countless relatives who had danced cumbia until sunrise.

Even though her aching bones begged for rest, Doña Elena was already awake at 5 a.m., broom in hand. To her, a dirty house was an unforgivable sin. By 10 a.m., the tropical sun was blazing, yet not a sound came from upstairs, where the newlyweds were sleeping.

Doña Elena felt her blood boil. She planted herself at the base of the wooden staircase and bellowed in the thunderous voice that had terrified her grandchildren for decades, “Sofía! Mateo! It’s time! Come down and help—this isn’t a hotel!”Nothing answered her. The heat and her fury crept up her neck.

“Look, I may be old, but I’m not stupid! Up with those buttocks!” she shouted again, striking the railing with her hand.

Still nothing. Not even a creak.

Blinded by indignation, she fumed. What kind of daughter-in-law was this? Newly arrived and already acting like royalty, sleeping late while her mother-in-law worked herself to the bone? Sweaty, exhausted, and at the end of her patience, Doña Elena stormed into the kitchen, where her gaze landed on the old, heavy wooden broom handle behind the door. She grabbed it like a weapon.

“Now they’ll see who’s boss in this house,” she muttered, charging up the stairs two at a time, breathless, heart pounding in her ears, fully prepared to drag them out of bed if she had to—a lesson that girl would never forget.