That’s when my mother stepped forward.
She grabbed my hair.
Hard.
“Stop complaining,” she snapped, pulling me toward the edge of the bed. “You’re not the only woman who’s ever given birth.”
Pain exploded through my abdomen, so intense I couldn’t even cry properly. My grip tightened around Alba instinctively, my entire body trying to protect her while mine was barely holding together.
“Just get her out,” my father said, his voice distant, almost irritated. “She’s making this uncomfortable.”
Ten minutes later, my sister arrived.
Noelia walked in like she belonged there, pushing her stroller, carrying bags, her eyes scanning the room before settling on me. I was pale, shaking, barely able to stand, my suitcase half-packed beside the bed.
She smiled.
“Finally,” she said casually. “Now I can have this room without your drama.”
I don’t remember walking down the stairs.
I remember holding Alba.
I remember the cold air hitting my face.
I remember thinking I might collapse.
And then—I saw Mateo’s car.
He stopped so suddenly the tires screeched, and before the engine was even off, he was already out, his eyes scanning me in a way that changed instantly from confusion to something far more dangerous.
“Lucía… what happened?” he asked, his voice low, controlled.
I looked at him, barely able to hold myself upright.
“They kicked me out,” I said.
Something in him shifted.
Not loudly.
Not violently.
Just… completely.
He looked past me.
At my parents.
At my sister still standing in the doorway.
He didn’t shout.
He didn’t argue.
Instead, he walked to the car, opened the glove compartment, and pulled out a blue folder along with his phone. When he turned back, his expression was calm, but it was the kind of calm that made people step back without knowing why.
“No one moves,” he said quietly.
Even my mother hesitated.
“You’ve just made the biggest mistake of your lives.”
My father frowned. “What are you talking about?”
Mateo didn’t raise his voice.
He didn’t need to.
“You forced a woman out of a house 24 hours after major surgery,” he said slowly. “With visible bleeding. With a newborn in her arms.”
My mother scoffed. “Oh, please, don’t exaggerate—”
Mateo held up his phone.
“I already called an ambulance,” he said. “And I’ve sent photos to my lawyer.”
Silence.
“What photos?” my sister asked, her confidence slipping for the first time.
Mateo stepped closer, his voice colder now.
“The ones showing her condition,” he replied. “The blood. The way she could barely stand. The fact that you all watched and did nothing.”
My father’s expression changed.
“This is a family matter,” he said quickly.
“No,” Mateo answered. “This is abuse.”
In the distance, sirens began to echo.
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