Your son.
Your little boy who once asked if clouds got tired from moving all day.
You press your hand against the bed rail because you are afraid if you touch him, he will wake and recoil.
Elvira sits on the other side of the bed, humming an old song from Oaxaca.
She has not looked at you in two hours.
You deserve that.
A doctor named Dr. Herrera enters with a serious face.
“Mr. De la Vega?”
You straighten. “Yes.”
“We removed organic material from inside the cast. There was sugar residue, honey or syrup-like substance, and evidence of red ant activity. The inner padding appears to have been deliberately contaminated after the cast was placed.”
Your mouth goes dry.
“After?”
“Yes. The exterior cast was punctured in several spots. Small holes. Possibly made with a needle or fine tool. Enough to inject or introduce sweet liquid under the padding.”
The hallway seems to tilt.
You remember Diego screaming the first night.
It burns.
You remember Valeria telling you not to remove the cast.
It burns deeper.
Dr. Herrera continues, “The skin damage is painful but treatable. Infection risk is being managed. The greater concern is the delay. He was in severe distress.”
Delay.
A clean word for your failure.
You close your eyes.
“He told me,” you whisper.
The doctor says nothing.
That silence is mercy and judgment together.
Child Protective Services arrives before noon.
So do the police.
Valeria tries to enter Diego’s room wearing a cream dress and perfect makeup, carrying a stuffed bear from the hospital gift shop like a prop. Elvira stands in the doorway.
“You do not pass.”
Valeria’s smile tightens. “You are the nanny.”
“And you are the woman he fears.”
The police officer nearby hears that.
So does CPS.
Valeria notices too late.
She turns to the officer with tears ready. “This woman has always hated me. She is poisoning Diego against me.”
Elvira lifts her chin.
“I did not put ants in a cast.”
The sentence lands like thunder.
Valeria’s eyes flash.
You step between them.
“Leave,” you say.
She stares at you.
“Alejandro, you cannot be serious.”
“I said leave.”
“You’re choosing a servant’s lies over your wife?”
Elvira flinches at the word servant, but only slightly.
You do not.
“I’m choosing my son’s body over your performance.”
Valeria’s face goes blank.
Then cold.
“You will regret humiliating me.”
That is not something an innocent woman says.
The officer writes it down.
Valeria sees the pen move and immediately softens.
“I’m under stress,” she says.
No one answers.
She leaves escorted by security.
For the next two days, Diego barely speaks.
Not to you.
Not to doctors.
Only to Elvira.
You do not force him.
Your therapist friend, Dr. Marín, tells you over the phone that trust, once broken by a parent, does not return because the parent is sorry.
“You want him to forgive you quickly so you can stop feeling like a monster,” Dr. Marín says.
The words hurt because they are true.
