She moved closer to the bed. I felt her hand brush my hair—not affectionately, but examining the texture, like checking the upholstery on a sofa she planned to sell.
“Rest now, Lucía,” she whispered, her voice dripping with venomous sweetness. “Don’t worry about anything. We’ll take care of… everything.”
She walked out, and the air in the room felt lighter, cleaner, without her in it. But her words remained, hanging over me like a guillotine blade.
Thirty days.
You learn a lot about people when they think you are furniture. They stop filtering. They shed their masks.
It was Day 12. A nurse had left a baby monitor on the counter near my bed. It was intended to let me hear my daughter in the nursery, a kindness I cherished. But someone had moved the other receiver. It wasn’t in the nursery. It was in the private family waiting room down the hall.
Static crackled, and then, voices drifted in. Crystal clear.
“This is actually perfect, Andrés. Stop looking so morose,” Teresa’s voice cut through the static.
“She’s my wife, mother. It feels… wrong,” Andrés said. But he sounded bored, not guilty.