“My husband hit me while I was pregnant as his parents laughed… but they didn’t know one message would destroy everything.”

The kitchen lights were on. Helena and Raúl—his parents—sat at the table like they were waiting for a show: coffee cups in front of them, plates empty, faces expectant. Nora, Víctor’s sister, leaned against the counter with her phone raised, recording openly, like this humiliation was content. Helena’s eyes dragged over me with disgust that didn’t bother to hide itself. “Look at her,” she said with a thin smile. “She thinks carrying a baby makes her special.” Her gaze lingered on my belly as if it offended her. “So slow. So clumsy. Víctor, you’re far too soft on her.”

“Sorry, Mom,” Víctor replied instantly, and then he aimed all of that obedience at me like a weapon. “Did you hear that? Faster. Eggs, bacon, pancakes. And don’t burn them like you always do.”