I tried to sit up, holding Alba carefully against my chest, but the pain hit immediately, sharp and deep, forcing me to lean forward just to breathe through it.
“At least let me stay until Mateo comes back,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. “Then we’ll figure something out.”
My mother’s patience snapped.
“I said pack your things.”
My father stood by the door the entire time, silent, avoiding my eyes like he didn’t want to be part of what was happening, but also unwilling to stop it. When I looked at him, hoping for something—anything—he just sighed.
“Don’t make this harder than it needs to be,” he muttered. “You’re overreacting.”
I wasn’t overreacting.
I could feel the blood through my gown.
I could feel my body trembling.
And still, they expected me to stand.
“I can’t,” I whispered. “Please…”
That’s when my mother stepped forward.
She grabbed my hair.
Hard.
“Stop complaining,” she snapped, pulling me toward the edge of the bed. “You’re not the only woman who’s ever given birth.”
Pain exploded through my abdomen, so intense I couldn’t even cry properly. My grip tightened around Alba instinctively, my entire body trying to protect her while mine was barely holding together.
“Just get her out,” my father said, his voice distant, almost irritated. “She’s making this uncomfortable.”
Ten minutes later, my sister arrived.
Noelia walked in like she belonged there, pushing her stroller, carrying bags, her eyes scanning the room before settling on me. I was pale, shaking, barely able to stand, my suitcase half-packed beside the bed.
She smiled.
“Finally,” she said casually. “Now I can have this room without your drama.”
I don’t remember walking down the stairs.
I remember holding Alba.
I remember the cold air hitting my face.
I remember thinking I might collapse.
And then—I saw Mateo’s car.
