PART 1
“Take the baby and go back to your parents’ house. My mom needs peace, not diapers and crying.”
That was the first thing Diego said to me when I came home from the hospital with our newborn son in my arms.
He didn’t even ask how I was feeling. He didn’t look at Mateo. He didn’t reach out to hold him. He stood in the doorway of the apartment as if I were an unwelcome visitor and not his wife, fresh out of a C-section, her body aching and her heart longing for a hug that never came.
My name is Valeria Mendoza, I was thirty-two years old, and I worked as a financial analyst at a logistics company in Mexico City. I was always good with numbers, with contracts, with clear accounts. Maybe that’s why it was so hard for me to understand that, while I was calculating expenses for diapers and pediatrician appointments, my marriage was silently rotting away.
The apartment where we lived, in the Del Valle neighborhood, wasn’t Diego’s. My parents had given it to me before I got married, the fruit of years of work and sacrifice. It was in my name. But I never held it against anyone, because I believed that a home wasn’t built with deeds, but with trust.
During the pregnancy, Diego changed. At first, I thought it was fear of becoming a father. Then I started noticing his cell phone always face down, calls from the balcony, messages at midnight. His mother, Doña Lourdes, also started interfering more: telling me I shouldn’t work so much, that a pregnant woman should be more obedient, that “in the husband’s house, the husband’s rules are respected.”
She said it even though the house wasn’t her son’s.
When Mateo was born, Doña Lourdes didn’t go to the hospital. She said hospitals gave her anxiety. I didn’t argue. I was too exhausted and too in love with my baby to fight.
The day we were discharged, I took a taxi alone. The driver helped me with the diaper bag and asked me sheepishly,
“And the baby’s father?”
I smiled the way you smile when you don’t want to explain your embarrassment.
“He’s working,” I lied.
