I’m Doña Rosa, and I live in a humble little town in central Mexico. Only my daughter and I were left at home after my husband died in an accident years ago.

My daughter’s name is Marisol. She’s 25 years old, pretty, and hardworking, but she had to drop out of school because there was no money.

Last year, she decided to go to Mexico City to look for work, hoping to send me money.

I was afraid because a country girl in the city takes many risks, but she told me: “Mom, don’t worry, I’ll just work as a domestic worker; I won’t get involved in anything bad.”

So she left, and with luck, she found a job at the home of Don Ricardo, a wealthy 50-year-old real estate entrepreneur.

He had been widowed for more than ten years, childless, and living alone in a huge mansion in Polanco.

At first, Marisol told me on the phone that Don Ricardo was very good. He didn’t scold her, paid her well, and even gave her a bedroom of her own.

All she had to do was clean, cook, and wash, things she knew how to do since she was a child.

Don Ricardo talked a lot about his late wife, who died of cancer, and said he missed her too much. My daughter felt sorry for him seeing him so alone, eating poorly, and even staying up late at night looking at his wife’s photo.

Over time, he began to pay more attention to Marisol: he bought her clothes, gave her birthday presents, and made affectionate gestures like holding her hand or hugging her when she was tired.

I worried and warned her:

“Daughter, he’s much older and he’s also your boss; don’t confuse things.”

But Marisol laughed: “Mom, don’t worry, he sees me as a daughter.”

Everything changed after six months.

Don Ricardo began to openly declare his love for her. He said Marisol reminded him of his wife: hardworking, sweet, and homely.

He promised her that he would make her live like a queen, that she would never have to suffer want again.

She was hesitant because of the age difference, but he insisted. He took her on trips, shopping, and even came to town to propose.

When I met him in person, I saw an educated, wealthy man, and I thought: “My daughter has suffered a lot; better an older but serious and stable man than a poor young man with no future.” In the end, we agreed.

The wedding was simple, with only family. From a maid, Marisol became the lady of the house.

I was overjoyed, convinced that her life had changed forever.

After we were married, Marisol told me she was living like a dream. She cooked, and he always told her everything was delicious.

He spoiled her with a car, jewelry, and even hired more servants so she wouldn’t have to do anything.

In private, he was also insistent; my daughter, blushing, confessed to me: “Mom, even though she’s older, she has a lot of energy. Every night she demands things from me. I’m tired but happy because I see him happy.” I thought my daughter had been lucky: a rich, loving, and attentive husband.

But soon the cracks appeared.

Marisol told me that Don Ricardo talked too much about his d.e.ad wife, had photos of her all over the house, and even, in intimate moments, called her by her deceased name.

This made her jealous, they argued, and he apologized, saying it was a habit and that he would change.

However, he began to exhibit strange behavior: he would stay up all night talking to himself, muttering to himself, and he forbade my daughter to go down to the basement, claiming it was only junk.

A month after the wedding, Marisol returned to town in the middle of the night.

She arrived pale, her clothes wrinkled, with dark circles under her eyes, as if she were soulless.

I shook her, frightened:
“Daughter, what happened? Where is your husband?”

She cried inconsolably. It was hard to get him to speak, but finally, trembling, he told me: at first, everything seemed normal, but then he noticed something strange: he was eating little, his skin was cold, and although he searched for her passionately, his body lacked the strength of a healthy man.

She suspected he was ill and encouraged him to go to the doctor, but he refused.

Until one night, she woke up and couldn’t find him in bed.

She mustered up her courage and went to the basement, even though he always forbade her.

The door was locked, but she found the key. When she went in…

Marisol shuddered at the memory. She told me between sobs:
“Mom… in the basement, there was a life-size silicone mannequin, dressed in a wedding dress, with real skin. And Don Ricardo was lying next to her, whispering to her: ‘Love, I brought the girl to replace you, but you’re still the only one, so you’ll always be with me.’”

My blood ran cold.

The whole family was speechless, horrified. Don Ricardo suffered from a serious psychiatric disorder.

He had married my daughter only to hide his unhealthy obsession with his late wife.

Marisol immediately divorced him, and he was admitted to a psychiatric hospital.

Now my daughter is back in the village, trying to heal the wounds of her soul.

Mothers, beware: just because a man has money doesn’t mean his daughter will be happy.