The baby’s heartbeat.
Gabriel leaned back against the wall. He could not hold back his tears.
Lucía looked at him. For the first time in eight months, there was no hatred in her eyes. She took Gabriel’s hand and placed it on her belly.
The baby kicked.
Gabriel let out a silent sob.
“She’s alive,” he murmured.
— She’s been with me all this time, — Lucía said. — Enduring.
The doctor was clear: Lucía was weak, anemic, and deeply worn down, but the baby was strong. She needed rest, proper food, and no more cleaning shifts.
When Lucía fell asleep, Gabriel went to find the room where she had been living. It was small and damp — a worn-out bed, a two-burner stove, three cans of beans on a shelf. Inside a bag he found worn clothing, documents, a wedding photograph, and a small yellow baby blanket, washed so many times it had gone nearly transparent.
For illustration purposes only
Gabriel sat on that bed and wept as he had never wept before.
When he returned home, he placed the little blanket on the kitchen table — carefully, respectfully, as though it were something precious.
The following morning, Doña Mercedes arrived at the door.
— Open up, Gabriel. That woman is in there, isn’t she?
Gabriel did not open it all the way.
— Yes. She’s here.
“She will destroy you. That child shouldn’t even be yours.”
Gabriel’s voice came out steady.
— That child is my son. Lucía is my wife. And you threatened her.
— I was protecting you.
— No. You were controlling me. If you threaten her again, if you try to approach her or the baby without permission, you will lose me forever.
Silence followed.
Doña Mercedes, for the first time, received no response.
She left.
Lucía had heard everything from the hallway, one hand resting on her stomach.
