If something happens to me, Emilia knows what to do. I showed her the way to the hospital. I told her to take care of the babies like I took care of her. I can’t do any more.
Day 1 after birth: I’m too weak to stand. Emilia brings me water. She’s seven and stronger than me.
Day 2: The babies cry nonstop. I have no milk. Emilia gives them sugar water. It’s all we have.
Day 3: I can’t open my eyes. I told Emilia I’m okay. I lied. Forgive me.
The last line barely showed: Emilia, thank you. You’re the best daughter I could have had.
Cruz closed the notebook, hands shaking.
At the hospital, doctors worked for hours. Severe postpartum hemorrhage. Three days without help. Against all odds, the transfusions worked. At dawn, the woman opened her eyes.
“My children?” she whispered.
“They’re all alive,” a nurse said gently.
“And Emilia?”
“She’s here. Sleeping in the waiting room. She hasn’t moved.”
The mother cried—not from pain, but relief.
When Emilia entered the room, she moved slowly, as if afraid to break something. She stood beside the bed in silence.
“I’m sorry,” her mother whispered. “You shouldn’t have carried that burden.”