My name is Laura Méndez, and when everything changed, I was eight months pregnant.
We lived in a quiet residential area in Valencia, in a house that had belonged to my husband’s family for years. My husband, Javier Méndez, worked long hours as a construction supervisor, leaving before sunrise and returning late in the evening. During the day, I was usually home with his mother, Carmen Méndez.
From the very beginning, Carmen made it clear that she wasn’t comfortable with me. I came from a humble, rural background, while hers had lived in affluence for generations. She never openly confronted me in Javier’s presence, but when we were alone, her comments were cold and dismissive. Nothing I did ever seemed good enough.
Being pregnant didn’t make my life any easier. I was often tired, my legs would swell, and my back would ache, yet I was still expected to take care of the house—cleaning, cooking, and keeping things tidy. When I slowed down or sat down to rest, Carmen would sigh or comment that pregnancy was “no excuse” to stop being useful. I remained silent, convincing myself that staying calm was better for my baby.
One afternoon, while Javier was still at work, I was mopping the kitchen floor. I felt dizzy and weak, and my movements were slower than usual. As I backed away, I slipped slightly on the wet tiles and lost my balance. I fell sideways.
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