Then you stopped.
He had been hurt by the question.
You had been hurt by his mother’s hand.
Those were not the same thing.
“I don’t know,” you answered.
Andrés looked up sharply.
Your mother gasped softly.
Your father did not move.
The nurse nodded like your answer was enough.
“Then we’ll limit visitors for now.”
Andrés stepped forward. “Camila, please.”
You looked at him from the bed.
For three years, he had asked you to understand his mother. To forgive her tone. To ignore her comments. To attend one more dinner. To not make things awkward. To not tell your parents. To not overreact.
Now he wanted another please.
You were empty.
“I need rest,” you said.
He looked as if you had betrayed him.
Maybe that was the problem.
In his world, your pain was negotiable.
His discomfort was emergency.
Your father opened the door.
“You heard her.”
Andrés stared at him, then at you.
For a second, you thought he might finally say something brave.
Instead, he whispered, “I’ll come back tomorrow.”
Your father said, “Only if she asks you to.”
Andrés left.
This time, the room breathed.
That night, you slept badly.
Pain woke you every hour. So did memory. In the dark, the slap replayed again and again, but so did every moment before it: Beatriz’s insults, Andrés’s silence, your own nervous laugh when you tried to pretend it didn’t matter.
At 3:12 a.m., you woke crying.
Your mother was asleep in the chair, her neck bent awkwardly. Your father was awake by the window, looking out over the hospital parking lot.
He turned immediately.
“Pain?”
You shook your head.
He came closer.
“Fear?”
You nodded.
He sat beside you carefully.
“I don’t know how I let it get this bad,” you whispered.
Your father took a long breath.
“You loved him.”
“That’s not an excuse.”
“No,” he said. “It’s an explanation. Not for staying forever. For staying long enough to get confused.”
You cried harder.
Your father had never been a man of many words. He fixed things. Cars, doors, leaking faucets, broken chairs. But that night he understood something no tool could repair.
He could not fix your marriage.
He could only help you stop bleeding inside it.
The next morning, your mother brought a bag from home: clean clothes, slippers, a soft cardigan, your favorite lip balm. She arranged everything in the hospital room with angry tenderness, muttering under her breath about “that woman” and “useless husbands.”
Your father stepped out to make calls.
You thought he was calling work.
He was not.
By noon, he returned with two people.
A lawyer and a locksmith.
You blinked.
“Papá?”
He set a folder on the bedside table.
“You are not going back to that apartment alone. If your name is on the lease, we verify it. If your belongings are there, we retrieve them. If Beatriz has keys, they stop working. If Andrés wants to talk, he talks through someone who writes things down.”
Your mother folded her arms. “And if that woman comes near you again, she meets me first.”
The lawyer, a woman named Daniela Rojas, smiled politely.
“I recommend legal options before physical ones.”
Your mother looked disappointed.
For the first time since the slap, you laughed.
It hurt your incision.
But it was worth it.
Daniela pulled up a chair and explained everything slowly. Protective orders. Visitor restrictions. Documentation. Possible complaint for assault. Separation options. Property questions. Medical evidence. Witness statements.
Every word made the situation more real.
And somehow, less impossible.
“So I can file a complaint?” you asked.
Daniela’s expression softened.
“You already started. The hospital report and police statement are the beginning. Now you decide how far to take it.”
Your stomach tightened.
“What if Andrés says I’m exaggerating?”
Daniela looked you directly in the eyes.
“Then he can say it in writing.”
You liked her immediately.
That afternoon, Andrés came back.
He brought flowers.
White lilies.
You hated white lilies.
Beatriz loved them.
That told you everything you needed to know about who had prepared the apology.
The nurse stopped him at the door and asked whether you wanted to receive him. Your mother looked ready to say no for you, but your father gently touched her shoulder.
Your choice.
That was new too.
You thought for a moment.
Then you said, “Five minutes.”
Andrés entered like a man walking into court.
He saw Daniela sitting in the corner and froze.
“Who is she?”
“My lawyer,” you said.
The flowers lowered slightly in his hand.
“Lawyer?”
“Yes.”
His face turned pale. “Camila, this is getting out of control.”
You looked at him.
“No. It has been out of control. Now it is being documented.”
Daniela wrote something down.
Andrés noticed.
Good.
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