And in those eight months, your son had become quieter.
At first, you told yourself it was adjustment. Children took time. Especially children like Miguel, who had not spoken freely since the crash, who hated being touched unexpectedly, who still woke from nightmares with his fingernails dug into his palms and his breath running wild. A new wife in the house, a new rhythm, a new woman arranging flowers in Elena’s old vases and replacing silence with music and perfume and bright upholstered furniture. Of course it had been hard.
But lately, something else had crept in.
Miguel no longer liked being alone with Valeria.
He never said that clearly. He said very little clearly anymore.
But sometimes when you came home early, you found him staring at nothing with a set jaw and wet lashes, and when you asked what was wrong, he would shake his head so fast it felt less like denial and more like retreat.
Once, two weeks earlier, you had found a bruise near his wrist while helping him into the bath chair.
He told you he had hit the armrest.
Valeria, passing the doorway, had laughed lightly and said, “He’s clumsy when he’s angry, just like his father.”
You had smiled back.
Because that is what men do when their lives are being rearranged by beautiful women they are afraid to doubt.
Then the scream came again.
Shorter now.
Cut off.
You threw back the sheets.
Valeria sat up this time.
“Ricardo.”
You swung your legs to the floor.
“Stay here,” you said.
She grabbed your wrist.
Her grip was stronger than it should have been for someone half-awake.
“Don’t,” she said.
The word hung there.
Not loving. Not worried.
Flat.
You turned to look at her fully.
“Why not?”
