PART 1
—That’s it. In a little while, they both stop breathing.
I heard my husband’s voice from the cold kitchen floor, and although my body couldn’t move, my mind remained awake. My son, Mateo, was lying next to me, pale, motionless, his lips slightly parted. For a second I thought I had lost him. Then I saw his chest rise slightly, like a candle about to go out.
I didn’t scream. I didn’t cry. I didn’t move.
If he did, perhaps Eduardo would finish what he had started.
My name is Daniela, I’m 38 years old, and for twelve years I believed my house in Naucalpan was a safe place. It wasn’t a mansion, but it had bougainvillea at the entrance, the smell of coffee in the mornings, and Mateo’s drawings stuck to the refrigerator. I had quit my job as a nurse when he was born. Eduardo said it was for the best: “You take care of the baby, I’ll take care of everything else.”
And I believed him.
At first, Eduardo was charming. He was one of those men who greets the tamale vendor, helps the neighbors with their bags, and at family gatherings can make even the most serious aunt laugh. But in the last two years, he changed. He would arrive late, hide his cell phone, speak in hushed tones in the yard, and get annoyed if I asked him anything.
“You’re exaggerating, Dani. You sound like a cop,” he told me.
I kept quiet for Mateo’s sake.
That’s why, when Eduardo arrived early that Thursday and said he was going to make dinner, I wanted to believe it was a sign. He made flank steak, mashed potatoes, and green beans with garlic. Mateo was happy. “My dad’s going to cook,” he kept repeating, like it was Christmas.
But something didn’t add up.
Eduardo never cooked. He couldn’t even cook eggs without burning them. Even so, he put on some Luis Miguel music, opened a bottle of mineral water, and served us with a smile that was a little too fixed.
The mashed potato tasted strange. Very buttery, but with a bitter undertone. Mateo grimaced.
—Mom, my stomach hurts.
Then I felt dizzy. Not like when your blood pressure drops. It was deeper, darker. My fingers went numb. My tongue felt heavy. I looked at Eduardo, and he didn’t rush to help us. He was by the sink, calmly washing his hands.
That’s when I understood.
I fell to the ground and pulled Mateo down with me, pretending to faint. With what little strength I had left, I squeezed his hand once. He understood. My boy, my Mateo, stayed still.
Eduardo approached. His shoes were right in front of my face.
“That’s it,” he whispered. “In a little while, they’ll both stop breathing.”
Then he walked into the hallway, as if he had just taken out the trash.
When I heard the door close, I brought my lips close to my son’s ear and said:
—Don’t move yet.
Because what happened next… I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy.
