“Perhaps if your wife were no longer here, she wouldn’t keep you away from your real family.”
My mother said that right in front of a doctor, while my seven-day-old son burned with fever in my arms.
My name is Miguel Torres. I live in Mexico City and work as a warehouse supervisor. My wife, Valeria, has always been a sweet woman—the kind who apologizes even when they haven’t done anything wrong, the kind who rarely raises their voice even when hurt.
A week earlier, she had given birth to our son, Santiago.
