In Guadalajara, they said a man showed his love through his work. I believed it so much that, when my son was born, my life was made up of long shifts, aching shoulders, and silent promises I made to myself as I walked home under the yellow streetlights.
For the first month after Hue was born, I sent my mother 1.5 million pesos a month to care for her. I did it without hesitation, because in the hospital corridor, with the smell of disinfectant in the air and my wife still shaking from childbirth, my mother had held my arm and said, “Don't worry. I'll take care of Hue as if she were my own daughter.”
I wanted to believe her. A son wants to believe that the woman who raised him would never harm the woman he loves.
Hue had always been so gentle that people underestimated her strength. She spoke softly, was patient, and the kind of person who thanked the nurses even when she was in pain, but I had seen what childbirth had done to her body and knew that recovery would not be easy.
The doctor had been very clear before we left the hospital: Hue needed rest, hot meals, lean proteins, milk, broth, vegetables, and regular care if she was to heal properly and breastfeed her baby without collapsing from exhaustion.
I listened to every word as if it were sacred. I wrote down the doctor's advice on my phone, bought my own vitamins, and gave my mother enough money to buy the best food in the neighborhood without having to count coins.
Every morning, before going to work, I would stand beside Hue's bed and kiss her forehead, while our newborn son slept next to her in a nest of blankets. Her face was still pale from the nighttime feedings, but she always smiled and told me not to worry, and that smile gave me the strength to face the most difficult hours of the day.
At lunchtime, I called home. In the evening, if I knew I'd be late, I'd call again.
Most of the time, my mother answered. She always seemed efficient, almost offended that I even had to ask, and would say things like, "Hue has already eaten," or "I made some chicken soup," or "She's resting now, don't wake her."
Sometimes I asked to speak to my wife, and my mother always had an excuse ready. Hue was sleeping. Hue was breastfeeding. Hue was in the shower. Hue was too tired to speak.
I accepted every explanation, because fatigue turns even good men into fools. I worked longer hours than ever, and every day I told myself that sacrifice in the present would guarantee my security in the future.
To be honest, I was proud of myself. I thought I was doing everything right.
I thought giving money meant offering protection. I thought responsibility could be delegated if the love was sincere enough, and that mistake would haunt me later more than any heated argument.
That afternoon, right after lunch, the power went out at work. The machines froze mid-cycle, the lights began flashing, and within ten minutes everyone was told to go home because the repairs would take the rest of the day.
For the first time in weeks, I felt almost like a child with excitement. I imagined Hue's surprised face when I returned home earlier than expected, and I pictured myself sitting next to her with the baby in my arms as she finally enjoyed a leisurely meal.
On the way back, I stopped at a specialty store and bought the imported milk my doctor had recommended. It was more expensive than I cared to admit, but I took it out as if it were medicine, because in my mind, it truly was.
I also picked up some fresh bread, oranges, and a small container of soup at a restaurant near the office. I remember feeling incredibly happy for such a trivial errand, as if they had given me back a piece of my family that I'd missed.
As I turned onto our block, the streets of Guadalajara were shimmering with heat. A dog barked lazily across the street, and one of the neighbor's curtains moved in the window, but otherwise everything seemed too still.
The front door was slightly open when I arrived. This alone slowed me down, because my mother was obsessed with doors and locks, and Hue was far too cautious to leave the house open with a newborn inside.
I threw open the door and called, “Hue?” My voice echoed strangely throughout the house, swallowed by a silence so complete that even the sound of my footsteps on the tiles seemed annoying.
No one answered. Then I heard it.
