I didn’t burden you with this yesterday because you were exhausted, but his words have changed my life.

In a small town near Seville, where the streetlights cast a warm glow on the cobblestone streets at night, my quiet life has suddenly been shaken up. My name is Lucía, I am 34 years old, and the mother of two children, Alba and Hugo. My friend Carmen, whom I considered almost a sister, opened my eyes yesterday to a truth that now breaks my heart. Her message about the money spent on my children is not just a debt, but a symbol of betrayal.

**The friendship I trusted**

Carmen entered my life five years ago, when my husband Javier and I moved to this town. She was our neighbor: cheerful, approachable, always willing to help. We became instant friends: we walked together with the children, had coffee in the square, and shared secrets. Her son Pablo, the same age as Alba, became inseparable from her. I trusted Carmen as I trusted myself. Whenever I was working or had to take care of something, she would pick up Alba and Hugo, take them to the park, or buy them ice cream. I always tried to reciprocate: sometimes with money, other times with gifts, or by helping her with whatever she needed.

My life is a constant race. I work as an administrator at a local bar, and Javier is a truck driver, often on the road. The children demand attention, and Carmen was my salvation. She would say, “Lucia, don’t worry, I love your little ones.” I believed her, not suspecting that behind her kindness lay a score to settle. But yesterday everything changed.

**The message that broke my heart**

Yesterday I came home exhausted. The shift had been tough, the kids were unruly, and Javier was still on the road. All I wanted was a shower and sleep. In the morning, a text from Carmen: “Lucia, I didn’t want to carry you yesterday, you were exhausted. Anyway, you owe me several hundred euros. The kids ate, then there were flowers on the rides, balloons, we bought them candy, and round-trip transportation.” I reread it three times, not understanding. Several hundred euros? Why?

Carmen never said her help had a price. I offered her money, but she rejected it: “Come on, that’s nonsense!” Now she was sending me a bill, as if I’d hired a babysitter, not a friend. I felt cheated, used. Were my children, Alba and Hugo, nothing more than an opportunity for profit? That thought took my breath away.

**The truth that burns**

I called Carmen to clarify. She spoke calmly, as if it were normal: “Lucia, you know everything is expensive. I’m not complaining, but Pablo and I aren’t rich either.” Her words sounded logical, but lacked the warmth I was used to. I asked her why she didn’t mention it earlier. She replied, “You would have been overwhelmed, and I didn’t want to upset you.” But her “concern” was a trap. I felt indebted, even though I never asked her to spend that money.

I began to remember every time she took the children. Balloons, rides, candy… I thought she did it out of affection, just like I used to buy Pablo candy. Now I see she kept track. Every gesture had a double meaning, and I, blind, didn’t notice. Our friendship, my trust in her, crumbled in seconds. I feel betrayed, and that wound never ends.

**The children and my fault**

Alba and Hugo are my life. Seeing their happy faces, I blame myself. Did I lean too heavily on Carmen? Should I have set clearer boundaries? How could I have imagined that a friend, almost family, would put a price on her kindness? Now I’m afraid the children will notice the rift. Alba adores Pablo, but how can I let her go with Carmen knowing that her “generosity” is a business?

Javier, upon returning, heard me and said, “Pay him and forget it. Don’t give it another thought.” But for me, it’s not just money. It’s betrayal. I don’t want to lose his friendship, but I can’t pretend it didn’t happen. My soul screams: How could I have been so blind?

**My decision**

I’ve decided to talk to Carmen. I’ll give her the money, but I’ll tell her I don’t want her “help” anymore. If she sees my children as expenses, I can’t trust her. It will be hard: Alba will miss Pablo, and I’ll lose a friend. But I can’t stand this deception. At 34, surrounding yourself with sincere people is a right.

This story is my cry for justice. Maybe Carmen didn’t mean to hurt me, but her statement shattered my faith in friendship. I don’t know how things will turn out, but I know I won’t allow anyone to abuse my trust. My children deserve the best, and so do I. May this lesson, even if it hurts, make me stronger. I am Lucía, and I choose honesty.