“Stop overreacting, Mariana. It’s my birthday—I’m not canceling my trip just because you don’t feel well.”

Diego barely looked at me as he adjusted his shirt, already focused on his plans.

I was sitting in the nursery, trying to steady myself. Our son, Mateo, was only days old, and something didn’t feel right. The discomfort kept growing, and I knew I needed help.

“Diego, please… I think I need to go to the hospital,” I said weakly.

He sighed. “You’re just exhausted. Every new mom goes through this. Try to rest.”

“I don’t feel okay…”

But he checked his watch. “I’m already late. My mom can come by tomorrow.”

Then he left.

The house became quiet, except for Mateo’s soft cries and my fading strength. My phone buzzed beside me—Diego posting cheerful updates about his trip, talking about “peace” and “no drama.”

I tried to reach for help… and everything slowly went dark.

PART 2

I don’t remember how long I was there. Everything felt distant, like my body was shutting down. Mateo’s cries grew quieter, and I couldn’t move.

Then I heard the front door open.

“Mariana?”

It was Lucía—my best friend, a doctor. When I hadn’t replied to her messages, she knew something was wrong.

She rushed in, immediately calling for help and taking control of the situation.

“Stay with me,” she kept saying.

Lights. Sirens. Voices.

Then nothing.

I woke up two days later in the hospital.

“Mateo?” I whispered.

“He’s safe,” Lucía said, holding my hand. “We got there in time.”

I closed my eyes in relief.

Diego hadn’t called once.

But he had posted more videos—smiling, celebrating, acting like nothing had happened.