It was Christmas Eve at my parents’ house, in a gated community in Monterrey where everything always had to look perfect. It smelled of romeritos (a traditional Mexican dish), roasted pork leg, and that tension that, in my family, was served alongside dinner. My husband, Julián, was away on business in Tijuana, so I had to go alone with Mateo to survive another gathering with my parents, my sister Lorena, and her son Emiliano.
Emiliano was twelve years old, with the body of a big teenager and the temperament of a spoiled bully. From a young age, he was excused for everything because he played soccer at a private academy and “had talent.” If he swore, it was because he was competitive. If he pushed, it was because he had a temper. If he hurt someone, it was because “that’s how strong-willed kids are.”
I was in the kitchen helping my mom clear the table when we heard the thud in the living room. Then came the scream.
It wasn’t a tantrum. It was a thin, broken scream, a cry of real pain.
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