PART 1

“Another girl is no use to me, Valeria, understand that once and for all!”

Martín’s scream echoed through the kitchen before the blow. I tasted the metallic tang of blood in my mouth and felt the cold tile floor against my cheek. Outside, it wasn’t quite dawn yet; on the street in our neighborhood, on the outskirts of Querétaro, I could already hear the sweet bread man passing by on his bicycle, as if the world could go on as normal while my life crumbled behind a closed door.

My daughters were at the entrance.

Seven-year-old Renata hugged five-year-old Lucía with a strength that was far beyond that of a child. Both of them had their eyes wide open, too wide, as if they had already learned that crying could make things worse.

“Martin, please…”, I managed to say.

He wiped his hand on his pants, furious, as if I were the one who had dirtied him.

“My brother already has two sons. My cousin too. And me? I’m just supporting three women in this house.”

Three women.

That’s what he called us when he was drinking. We weren’t his wife and daughters. We were a debt, an embarrassment, a cruel trick played by life.

His mother, Doña Teresa, appeared in the hallway wearing her black shawl and holding a rosary. She wasn’t surprised to see me on the floor. She was never surprised.

“A house without a son has no roots,” she murmured. “I told you this before, Martín. Some women are born marked.”

I closed my eyes. For years I had heard the same thing. That my womb was useless. That my daughters were beautiful, yes, but useless for continuing the family name. That I should apologize for every birthday on which the child everyone was waiting for hadn’t been born.

I endured it because I believed that enduring it was protecting Renata and Lucía. I believed that if I took the yelling, they would be safe. How blind a mother can become when fear teaches her to mistake silence for peace.

That morning, Martin grabbed my arm and pulled me up suddenly.

“You’re going with my mom to see the tea lady,” she said. “It’s about time your body stopped doing whatever it wants.”

“No,” I whispered.

It was the first time I said no.

Her face changed.

He pushed me against the table. I felt a horrible crack in my ribs, then a pain so sharp I couldn’t breathe. Renata screamed. Lucía started calling me: “Mom, Mom, get up.”

Martin turned towards them.

“¡Call him!”

Then everything went blurry. I saw Doña Teresa cross herself, not out of compassion, but out of annoyance. I saw the ceiling spin. I saw Renata running toward the neighbor’s door.

After that, nothing.

I woke up in a public hospital bed, with a white lamp above me and a nurse adjusting my IV. Even thinking hurt. Martín was sitting next to me, feigning concern in front of a serious-looking young doctor.

“She fell in the bathroom,” he said. “You see, doctor, she’s always distracted.”

The doctor didn’t answer right away. He looked at my arms, my split lip, the old bruises I could no longer hide.

“We need to do full X-rays,” he said. “And some other tests.”

Martin tensed up.

“That much isn’t necessary.”

“Yes, it is necessary,” the doctor replied.

Hours later he returned with a folder. He was no longer alone. A social worker entered behind him.

“Mrs. Valeria,” the doctor said, “your injuries are not consistent with a fall.”

Martin got up.

“Are you implying something?”

“I’m saying that we found recent fractures and older ones. Poorly healed ribs. Signs of repeated blows.”

I felt shame burning my face, even though I hadn’t done anything.

Then the doctor looked down at the papers.

“There’s something else too. You’re pregnant.”

The room fell silent.

Martin looked at me as if I had just been accused of treason.

“So what is it?” she asked through gritted teeth. “Tell me it’s a boy now.”

The doctor took a deep breath.

“It’s still too early to confirm. But before you blame her again, listen to me carefully: the sex of the baby is determined by the father, not the mother.”

Doña Teresa, who had just entered the room, stopped moving the rosary.

For the first time, he was speechless.

And I, lying there with my body broken, understood that that phrase was going to destroy the lie they had used to bury me alive.

But I didn’t know the worst yet.

I couldn’t imagine what was about to come to light…

PART 2

Martin closed the bedroom door carefully, as if gentleness could disguise his threat.

“Valeria,” he said softly, “you’re going to say you fell. You’re going to say the doctor made a mistake. And when we get out of here, you’re going to act like a wife.”

The social worker, who introduced herself as Marisol, did not take her eyes off him.