Lucía arrived after midnight, her face pale, her hands trembling in a way I had never seen before.
When I told her what I had heard, she didn’t scream.
She didn’t ask questions.
She simply covered her mouth, and tears fell quietly, the kind that come when something inside you breaks after years of believing you were safe.
“We’re leaving,” I whispered. “Tomorrow.”
And that’s exactly what we did.
Before the sun came up.
When our children returned to the hospital the next morning, pretending to be attentive, pretending to care… my bed was empty.
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