The matriarch, Doña Elena, hadn’t slept a wink. The grand wedding celebration for her only son, Mateo, and the sweet but still unknown Sofía, had ended in the early hours of the morning. The house was in complete disarray, permeated with the smell of food, liquor, and the sweat of a hundred relatives who had danced cumbia until dawn.

Despite her bones crying out for rest, Doña Elena was already up at five in the morning, broom in hand. For her, a dirty house was a mortal sin. It was ten o’clock in the morning, the tropical sun was already beating down, and not a sound could be heard from upstairs, where the newlyweds lay.

Doña Elena’s blood began to boil. She stood at the foot of the wooden staircase and shouted in that thunderous voice that made her grandchildren tremble:

—Sofia! Mateo! It’s time! Come down and help, this isn’t a hotel!

Silence. Heat and anger rose up his neck.

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

Nothing. Not even a creak.

Indignation blinded her. What kind of daughter-in-law was this? Newly arrived and already acting like a queen, sleeping until noon while her mother-in-law broke her back? Exhausted, sweaty, and with her patience snapping, Doña Elena went to the kitchen. Her eyes fell on the old, solid wooden broom handle she kept behind the door. She gripped it like a vengeful sword.

“Now they’ll see who’s boss in this house!” she muttered, taking the stairs two at a time, panting, her heart pounding in her temples. She was prepared to drag them out of bed with a stick if necessary. A lesson that little girl would never forget.

He burst into the room without knocking. The air was stale and hot.

—But what a shame this is…! —The scream died in his throat.

Her eyes widened. The broom handle slipped from her sweaty hands and hit the floor with a sharp crack. Doña Elena brought her hands to her mouth, stifling a scream of pure terror.

The double bed was a scene straight out of hell. It wasn’t just a mess. The white Egyptian cotton sheets, their most treasured wedding gift, were covered in extensive, dark red stains that looked like clotted blood. And everywhere, like snow on a battlefield, were scattered white feathers, stuck to the damp stains. It looked like someone had been beheaded!

Doña Elena took a step back, dizzy. Her heart was beating so hard she thought she was going to collapse right there on the wooden floor.

“My God…” she whispered. “Matthew…!”

With trembling hands, she moved toward the bed. She saw no mutilated bodies, but neither could she clearly make out the newlyweds. Feathers covered everything. Then, a slight movement under the sheets made her scream.

—Blessed Jesus!

Suddenly, Sofia sat up slowly, disheveled, with puffy eyes from sleep… and completely stained red up to her elbows.

“Mother-in-law!” she said, surprised. “What are you doing here?”

Doña Elena let out a scream and almost fainted.

“WHAT… WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?” he stammered, pointing at the bed. “This looks like a massacre!”

Mateo also got up, scratching his head.

“Mom, calm down,” she said sleepily. “It’s not what you think.”

“THEN WHAT IS IT?!” she roared, on the verge of hysteria.

Sofia looked at her hands, sighed, and with a calmness that further disconcerted the matriarch, replied:

Last night, while everyone was asleep, I heard noises in the yard. I went downstairs and found their chickens. They were infested with ticks, and one had a terrible infection. If I didn’t do something, they were all going to die.

“My chickens…?” murmured Doña Elena, confused.

“Yes, ma’am. I grew up in the countryside. My grandmother taught me,” Sofia continued. “We sacrificed two so they wouldn’t infect the others. We plucked them here because it was dark and raining outside. The blood is from the chickens. The feathers too.”

There was a heavy silence.

—…Two hens? —repeated Doña Elena, incredulous.

Mateo nodded.

—And we didn’t want to wake her, Mom. You always say that chickens are sacred.

Doña Elena looked again at the bed, the ruined sheets, the feathers… and suddenly burst out laughing. A loud, almost mad laugh that echoed throughout the room.

“Do you know how much those sheets cost?” she asked, laughing.

Sofia lowered her head.

—I’m sorry… I’m going to pay for it.

The laughter stopped abruptly. Doña Elena straightened up, looked at her intently, and, for the first time since she had known her, smiled with pride.

—Pay nothing—he said. —A woman who gets up at dawn, newly married, to save her mother-in-law’s chickens… that woman doesn’t pay anything.

Then he left the room, leaving the couple in shock. From the hallway he shouted:

—But yes! Get up now! Chicken soup doesn’t cook itself!

Sofia and Mateo looked at each other, relieved… without knowing that, from that day on, Doña Elena never again doubted who was really in charge in that house.