PART 2
In Norma’s bag were sedatives, sheets of paper with falsified reports, and a folder with Valeria’s name written in handwriting.
“Don’t touch that,” my mother said.
I looked at her.
“Now you’re scared.”
Ana wrapped Valeria in the blanket. My wife was still trembling, her arms burning, but she still whispered:
“I’m sorry.”
That word hurt more than any blow.
“Valeria, listen to me. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
My mother came closer.
“Diego, think carefully. If an ambulance comes into this house, the neighbors are going to talk.”
“My wife has chemical burns.”
“She did it herself,” Norma said.
Ana exploded.
“Liar! You told her that if she didn’t clean herself, the baby would be born contaminated. I heard you!”
Silence fell like a stone.
My mother glared at my sister.
“Ana, you’re confused.”
“No,” she replied, crying. “I was a coward. Not confused.”
When the paramedics arrived, Valeria clutched my sleeve.
“Don’t leave me with them.”
A police officer heard the words. So did my mother. And for the first time, Doña Beatriz was afraid.
At the hospital, the doctors examined Valeria: burns, dehydration, severe stress, and contractions caused by the trauma. When I heard “contractions,” I felt like the world was collapsing.
Our son.
Valeria answered by looking at my face first, as if she still needed permission to speak.
The doctor, a woman with a firm voice, told her:
“Valeria, you’re safe here. You can tell the truth.”
And she spoke.
She recounted that it all started when my mother began coming to our house every day “to prepare for the baby’s arrival.” Comments about the way she spoke, her clothes, her family from Iztapalapa, the way she ate. Then Norma began to control
