My sister Fernanda was sitting in the center, wearing a light blue dress, a flower crown, and her hands on her eight-month pregnant belly. My mom cried every five minutes, saying that she was finally going to be a grandmother. My dad was taking pictures as if he were documenting a miracle.
I was happy too. Or so I thought.
Fernanda had suffered a lot, according to everyone. Treatments, doctors, scares, expensive injections. My whole family had rallied around her. They bought her a stroller, a crib, clothes, diapers. My dad sold his old truck to help her with a “specialist.” I gave her money when she called me crying and said the baby might not survive.
Midway through the song, while we were all singing “Las Mañanitas” even though the baby hadn’t been born yet, Alejandro, my husband, came through the gate.
He was drenched in sweat, pale, clutching his cell phone.
“Stay away from her,” he said.
The music stopped.
Fernanda stopped smiling.
“What are you doing here?” she asked, clutching her belly.
I walked over to him.
“Alejandro, what’s wrong?”
