Two police officers stood outside. As soon as I saw their faces, my body understood before my mind did.
– Are you Angelica Herrera?
I don’t remember answering. I remember the uniform, the smell from my kitchen, the wooden table. They told me that a drunk driver had run a red light and hit Joaquín’s truck on the driver’s side.
“Just tell me if they’re alive,” I whispered.
The officer lowered his gaze.
– Her husband died at the scene. Her son is alive, but he has undergone surgery. His condition is critical.
The world didn’t collapse with a sound. It went black.
At the hospital, Dr. Medrano explained words to me that no mother should ever have to hear: severe head trauma, induced coma, cerebral edema. Mateo looked smaller than ever, hooked up to machines, his face swollen, and his head bandaged. I took his hand and promised not to leave him.
I called my parents that morning. Mom cried a little and said they would come. They came the next day, stayed for an hour, asked the usual questions, and then left. When I asked them for help organizing Joaquín’s funeral, Mom sighed as if I had asked her for an embarrassing favor.
– My daughter, this week we are going to help Veronica and Ruben move into the apartment. We have already promised.
—Mom, Joaquín just died.
– I know, but you are strong.
So I buried my husband almost alone. Solana, my best friend, was by my side. Joaquín’s colleagues cried a lot. My parents, Verónica and Rubén, arrived late, sat in the back, and left quickly.
Mateo was in a coma for six months. I read him stories, talked to him about baseball, and told him his father would be proud of him. My family visited him three times, always briefly.
And one morning in July, Dr. Medrano called me.
– Mrs. Herrera, I need you to come to the hospital immediately.
When I saw his face in the hallway, I knew that my last reason to continue breathing as before had also disappeared.
Matthew had died an hour earlier.
That afternoon, I called my mother, trembling, and told her I needed help burying my son.
There was silence on the other end of the line. Then the answer froze me to the bone.
– We can’t, Angelica. Tomorrow we’re going to Cancún with Veronica and Ruben. The trip is already paid for.
“Mom, Mateo was your grandson,” I said, gripping the phone as if I could break it. “He just died.”
“And I’m really sorry,” she replied dryly, “but we spent $8,000 on this vacation. We can’t afford to lose that money.”
– Do you prefer the beach to your son’s funeral?
– You’re exaggerating. You can do it. You always have.
She hung up. Before I could even breathe, Veronica called.
“Mom said you were making a fuss,” she said without greeting him. “Look, I’m sorry about Mateo, but we’re not canceling anything.”
– He was your nephew.
“And her death is your problem, not mine. I’m pregnant, Angelica. This may be my last chance to rest before the baby arrives.”
I felt a door closing inside me.
– Never say his name again.
– Don’t trust me. If you want to die, die alone. I won’t ruin my happiness because your son is dead.
I hung up without saying goodbye. That night I didn’t scream. I didn’t destroy anything. I just sat in Mateo’s room, surrounded by his trophies, his baseball glove, and his notebooks, and I realized something terrible: that day I hadn’t lost my family. I had seen them for the first time.
Mateo’s funeral took place on a Thursday morning. Solana was with me. His teacher, Mrs. Moreno, was there too; she had been driving for over an hour, her eyes red with tears, and she carried a letter written by his classmates. My son’s casket was placed next to Joaquín’s. As the priest spoke of the reunion in heaven, I thought of Cancún. Of my mother applying sunscreen. Of my father ordering seafood. Of Verónica smiling, her hand resting on her round belly, as my little boy was buried.
After the funeral, Solana wanted to stay with me.
– You shouldn’t be alone.
“I am not alone,” I told him. “I am awake.”
I went straight to the apartment Joaquín had given me. Verónica and Rubén had lived there for free for years. I unlocked the door with my key and started packing. Clothes, shoes, plates, pictures, cheap knick-knacks, papers—everything. I didn’t break anything. I didn’t yell. I was organized, punctual, calm. I hired a moving company and paid extra to have everything transported to my parents’ house. I used the spare key they had given me and told them to put the boxes in the middle of the living room, stacked on top of each other, like a shrine to their insolence.
So I called a locksmith.
– Do you just want to change your license plate?
“Everything,” I said. “I never want an old key to work again.”
When I was done, I went home, turned on my computer, and canceled all the payments I had made for them: my parents’ car insurance, their supplemental health insurance, their supermarket loyalty card, Veronica’s cell phone plan, Ruben’s car payments, his gym membership, his electric bills… all these little favors that ended up totaling almost $3,000 a month. Clicking “Cancel” reminded me of all the times I had given them money, thinking it was out of love.
That afternoon the pictures appeared. Verónica on the beach. Rubén in sunglasses. My parents raised their glasses. “My family always supports me,” she wrote.
I took screenshots of everything.
Three days later they came back. I didn’t answer their calls. I didn’t listen to any voicemails. At 10pm they knocked on my door as if they were there to retrieve a stolen item.
“Open up, Angelica!” Veronica shouted. “What have you done to our apartment?”
I took a deep breath. I looked at a picture of Mateo in his baseball uniform. Then I opened the door.
From 2…
The four of them stood on the steps of my house: my mother with a victim’s face, my father confused, Ruben avoiding my gaze, and Veronica red with rage, one hand on her stomach as if her pregnancy gave her the right to trample on anyone.
“We need to talk,” my mother said, entering without permission.
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