I still remember her in the hospital—exhausted, pale, almost unable to move, but smiling as if she had been handed the whole world.
“Promise me no one will hurt him,” she whispered.
I promised.
I had no idea how wrong I was going to be.
A few days later, I was sent on a business trip. I didn’t want to go. Valeria was weak, in pain, and the baby needed constant care. But my mother and sister insisted they would take care of everything.
“Go without worrying,” my mother said. “We’ll take care of everything.”
So I went—trusting them.
For four days I called constantly. My mother always answered. Valeria appeared only briefly on the video calls, looking weaker each time.
“She just gave birth,” my mother said. “Stop worrying.”
I wanted to believe her.
But something didn’t add up.
On the fourth day, I returned home earlier than planned without telling anyone.
The apartment door was ajar. Inside, the air was freezing. My mother and sister were asleep under blankets, surrounded by leftover food and trash.
There were no signs of care—no hot food, no clean clothes, nothing prepared for a newborn.
Then I heard it.
A faint cry.
