I dropped the tray and ran. Mateo was curled up on the floor, his knees drawn up to his chest, breathing in short gasps. His face was ashen, and his eyes were filled with a fear that chilled me to the bone.
“Where does it hurt, my love?” I asked, kneeling beside him.
He couldn’t even answer. He barely raised his hand to his right side. When I brushed against his shirt, he screamed so loud I felt like something inside me was going to break.
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.
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