The officer stared at her.
“Then explain why the baby hadn’t urinated properly for hours.”
Silence.
“Maybe she didn’t breastfeed him,” my mother said quickly.
My fists clenched.
The doctor stepped in.
“The baby had infected rashes. Marks on arms and legs.”
Brenda scoffed.
“He’s a newborn. Their skin marks easily.”
“And the bruises on the mother?” the officer asked.
Brenda stopped chewing.
My mother pressed her hand to her chest.
“She had a fever. Maybe she grabbed onto something.”
The lies came too easily.
The officer asked me to describe what I found.
I told her everything.
My mother cried louder.
“Since he got married, he changed. He doesn’t love the woman who gave him life.”
A week ago, that would’ve shattered me.
That day, it didn’t.
“Be quiet,” I said.
Her face froze.
“Mijo—”
“Don’t call me that.”
For a second, the mask dropped. Pure anger flashed through her eyes.
The officer saw it.
Then the doctor got a call.
“Mr. Torres. Your wife is awake.”
I ran.
Valerie looked small in the hospital bed. IV in her arm. Lips cracked.
“Vale,” I whispered.
Her eyes found mine—and filled with tears.
“Santi?” she asked.
“He’s alive. They’re taking care of him.”
She squeezed my hand weakly.
“I tried, Michael. I swear I tried.”
“I know.”
“No… listen. They didn’t let me call you.”
Officer Salgado stepped closer.
“Can you tell us what happened?”
Valerie glanced toward the door.
“They’re not here, right?”
“No,” I said. “They can’t come in.”
She nodded.
The first day, they gave her little food. Said eating too much would infect her stitches. Then they told her her milk was bad because the baby cried.
The second day, she developed a fever.
