My husband, Diego, is 30 years old. He is a good man, hardworking, the kind who still believes family should be cared for even when it hurts. His mother raised him and his two sisters, Valeria and Sofía, after his father left. That’s why Diego always had infinite patience with her.
Doña Elena was bossy, dramatic, controlling. If someone didn’t do what she wanted, she cried, screamed, or played the victim. I tried to keep my distance, because ever since Diego and I got married, she never fully accepted me.
Valeria, on the other hand, was a different story. Sweet, direct, cheerful. She was going to get married in a beautiful venue in Zapopan with her fiancé, Andrés. When she asked me to be a bridesmaid, I happily accepted. But months later, I found out I was pregnant and had to tell her I wouldn’t be able to handle all the responsibilities.
Valeria didn’t get angry. On the contrary, she hugged me and said:
—Take care of yourself. My wedding is not more important than my niece.
Doña Elena, however, changed toward me from that day on. She looked at me as if my pregnancy were a personal insult. Even so, I went to the wedding because Valeria asked me to. I was already huge, with swollen feet, sweating, and feeling unwell, but I wanted to be there for her.
Shortly before the ceremony, I felt a sharp pain. I went up to the bathroom to breathe. Then my water broke.
I panicked. I leaned on the sink and saw Doña Elena appear in the doorway. I handed her my phone with trembling hands.
—Call Diego. The baby is coming.
She looked at the wet floor, then at my belly, and pressed her lips together.
