—Today we just need to put the usual thing in his soup —my mother murmured—. After that, let God decide.
I clapped a hand over my mouth so I wouldn’t make a sound. My whole body was shaking. My own mother. My own sister. My own son.
Mateo had spent eleven months going in and out of the hospital. Some weeks he was fine, building little cars in the living room, arguing with me because he didn’t want to do his homework, laughing out loud at cartoons. And then suddenly he would crash again: extremely high fever, pain, vomiting, total exhaustion. The doctors said it was “an unclear condition.” They ran blood tests, scans, allergy testing, gastrointestinal analysis. Nothing made sense.
And I was going crazy.
Daniel, who was a surgeon at the same hospital where Mateo was being treated, kept asking me for patience. He said we shouldn’t jump to conclusions. But a mother cannot be patient when she sees her child fading before her eyes.
I backed away slowly, with the phone still recording, and got out of the house however I could. I don’t remember closing the door. I only remember driving through the rain on the streets of Guadalajara, replaying the audio over and over while my hands burned against the steering wheel.
When I got to the hospital, I went straight into the room. Daniel looked up when he saw me.
—What happened? You look…
—Get out. Right now.
In the hallway, I played the recording.
Daniel listened in silence. First he frowned. Then he turned pale. Then he leaned against the wall as if his legs had stopped working.
—No… that can’t be —he whispered.
