PART 2
I drove from Santa Fe home, my hands numb. I don’t remember traffic lights, streets, or the noise of the Periférico. I only remember my mother’s voice repeating in my head: “I’m going to prove to him that you’re crazy.”
But before going inside, I stopped a block away. Something inside me, perhaps the businessman who always checked evidence before signing anything, compelled me to open the entire file on the monitor.
And there I found hell.
It wasn’t the first time.
There were videos from weeks ago.
In one video, my mother would go into Mateo’s room in the early morning and clap by the crib every time the baby started to fall asleep. She was waking him up on purpose. Then she’d go out into the hallway and yell:
“Mariana, your son is crying again! You can’t even control that!”
In another, I saw her hiding an empty pill bottle in the bathroom trash can. Then, the next day, when I got home from work, she told me with a worried look:
“Son, I found this. I don’t want to scare you, but Mariana might be taking something.”
I remembered that day. I remembered how I looked at my wife with doubt. How she cried and swore she didn’t know where that bottle had come from.
I didn’t believe her.
I kept watching the videos with a knot in my stomach.
My mother was telling Mariana that I didn’t love her anymore. That I stayed late at the office because I was too embarrassed to come home and see her. She said that if I tried to report her, she would use her “connections” to take Mateo away from me.
“In Mexico, no one believes a distraught woman,” my mother would say with monstrous calmness. “Especially if her husband’s family has money.”
