When we got to the building, I tried to open it with the digital code. The screen flashed red. I tried again. Red again.
I felt a horrible chill in my chest.
Then the door opened from the inside.
Diego appeared in sweatpants, showered, calm, as if it were Sunday and not his son’s first day at home.
“I changed the code,” he said.
I explained that it hurt to walk, that Mateo needed to sleep, that I needed to lie down.
Diego didn’t even move.
“My mom is going to stay here for a while. She has high blood pressure. If the baby cries at night, it could hurt him. You go stay with your parents.”
“How long is ‘a while’?” I asked.
He shrugged.
“A year. Maybe two.”
From inside, Doña Lourdes’s voice came out sharp and clear:
“And don’t bring that hospital smell into this. I just had everything cleaned.”
I looked at Diego, hoping he would realize how absurd, how cruel, how inhumane this was.
But he just said:
“Don’t start with legal drama. I’m your husband. This is a family matter.”
Then Doña Lourdes appeared behind him, perfectly made up, not sick at all, not frail.
“In this house, what I say goes,” she declared. “If you want peace and quiet, leave.”
Mateo was sleeping against my chest, innocent of it all. I didn’t scream. I didn’t cry. I just took out my cell phone, my hand trembling, and called administration.
And when Diego saw that I wasn’t begging, but asking for help, his face changed.
I couldn’t believe what was about to happen…
