I remembered the night before labor, when Sergio—my younger brother—had proudly shown me his Twitch numbers, donations, clips of himself shouting at the camera. I had smiled, exhausted, pretending interest.
When I was discharged, my mother pushed the wheelchair while I held Bruno against my chest. I thought we were going home.
Instead, the car stopped in front of an old building with peeling paint in a working-class neighborhood.
They said I could stay there for a few days. That it belonged to a friend from work. That I should pay something symbolic. That I shouldn’t say they hadn’t helped me.
Climbing the stairs with no elevator, fresh from a C-section, was silent torture. My mother walked ahead with the baby’s backpack. My father followed behind, looking at his phone.
No one offered me an arm.
Inside, the apartment smelled of dampness and cigarette smoke. A mattress on the floor. A wobbly table. A plastic chair.
That was it.
I tried to say something, but my father cut me off. I had a roof. My brother couldn’t miss this opportunity.