“I kissed my wife’s cold forehead inside her coffin… and when I opened her clenched hand, I found a navy-blue button torn off with force. I recognized it immediately. It belonged to my brother Rodrigo’s jacket. My mother went pale and whispered,
“Julián, don’t make ridiculous assumptions.”
I stared at her without blinking.
“Too late, Mother.”
“Your wife died giving birth… and your son didn’t survive either.”
Those were the first words my mother said when I opened the door of my house, still holding a bouquet of white lilies for Camila.
For three weeks, I had been in Monterrey finalizing a deal to save the family vineyards. Every day, I imagined coming home. I pictured Camila’s smile, her hands resting on her swollen belly, and the way she would tell me our son had kicked again, as if he were already impatient to enter the world.
But when I stepped into our home in San Miguel de Allende, I did not find my wife waiting for me.
I found a coffin in the center of the living room.
Black curtains covered the windows. Candles burned around the room like someone had staged a perfect scene of grief. The air smelled of melted wax, dying flowers, and lies.
My mother, Teresa Armenta, stood beside the fireplace in a flawless black dress. Her hair was pinned neatly, and her lips were painted a red far too bright for a grieving woman. She was not crying. She was not even pretending.
“Where is Camila?” I asked, though the coffin had already answered me in the cruelest way.
Teresa tilted her head slightly.
“There, son. Be strong.”
