The footsteps continued to rise.

Slow.

Heavy.

No rush.

I retreated to the bed with my son pressed against my chest, feeling the throbbing in my throat and the pain of the stitches as if I were being torn apart inside again.

The chair was blocking the door.

It wasn’t a big deal.

But at that moment it was all I had.

I remained motionless.

I heard a murmur on the other side.

Then my father-in-law’s voice, closer than ever.

—Maria… open it a little. Don’t be scared.

I didn’t answer.

I hugged my baby, who began to move restlessly in my arms.

Behind Don Ernesto’s voice, another breath was heard.

The one of the man who was below.

“I just want to talk to you,” my father-in-law insisted.

I remained silent.

Then the stranger spoke for the first time from the other side of the door.

—If he shouts, he’ll wake the child up.

I felt such a violent cold that it ran down to my knees.

It wasn’t a direct threat.

It was worse.

It was the voice of someone who felt entitled to be there.

I reached for my cell phone on the nightstand with a trembling hand.

I had no signal.

Not a single line.

I lifted it higher, went to the window, and waved it around like crazy.

Nothing.

Outside, the rain continued to pound the patio.

The window overlooked the roof of the laundry room and then the backyard.

Too high to jump with the baby.

—Maria— said Don Ernesto again. —Open up. You’ll get worse if you keep imagining things.

Imagining.

That word made my blood boil.

Because I wasn’t imagining anything anymore.

There was a strange man inside the house.

At midnight.

In front of my door.

And my father-in-law wanted me to open it.

The doorknob moved again.

This time with more force.

The chair creaked.

My son let out a soft cry, one of those that starts small and in seconds shatters the night.

“You see,” murmured the other man. “That’s no good.”

I heard a sharp bang against the door.

It wasn’t a kick.

It was a fist.

Then another one.

“Don’t open it!” I shouted without thinking. “I’m going to lock myself in the bathroom and call the police!”

There was silence.

Three seconds.

Maybe four.

And then I heard Don Ernesto’s voice break.

To truly break down.

“Don’t call anyone,” he said. “Please. You don’t know what’s going on.”

I wanted to believe that it was madness with an explanation.

There was something I didn’t understand.

But instinct kept squeezing the back of my neck.

“Then tell me from there,” I replied. “And that man should leave.”

They didn’t answer right away on the other end.

I heard a whispered argument.

Tense.

In a hurry.

Then, steps going down.

Just a couple.

I didn’t know if it was my father-in-law or the other one.

I waited with a racing heart.

Finally, Don Ernesto spoke.

This time lower.

More defeated.

—His name is Ramiro. He worked with me years ago.

I didn’t say anything.

—He came for the child.

I felt the floor disappear.

I looked at my son.

So small.

With her little fists trembling against my chest.

“What?” I whispered, and my own voice sounded broken.

“I’m not going to give it to him,” he said immediately, almost desperately. “That’s why I told you not to open the door. That’s why I wanted to convince him to leave.”

I couldn’t breathe properly.

My head started to fill with noise.

“What are you talking about?” I asked.

From outside, I heard him resting his forehead or hand on the wood.

—Your husband got me into this.

That phrase hit me harder than any other.

My husband.

Matthew.

The man who had kissed my forehead three days before and told me that he did everything for us.

“She’s lying,” I said, though I didn’t sound convinced myself.

-Hopefully.

The baby’s crying grew louder.

I rocked him as best I could, with my legs loose and my eyes fixed on the door.

“Speak clearly,” I demanded.

Don Ernesto took a few seconds.

As if saying it out loud would condemn him forever.

—Mateo owed money. A lot. Not from work. Not from construction. He got into gambling and loans. I found out late. Ramiro lent him an amount he couldn’t pay back. When he found out you’d given birth… he said a newborn sells fast.

I felt nauseous.

Royals.

So violent that I had to cover my mouth to avoid vomiting on my son.

“No,” I said. “No. That’s impossible.”

But something inside me was already remembering.

The calls that Mateo would cut off when I came in.

The money that was never enough.

Excuses.

The anxiety in her eyes.

The way he insisted so much that I quarantine there.

Not at my mother’s house.

Not with an aunt.

Here.

With Don Ernesto.

I raised my head towards the door as if I could see it through the wood.

—Did he know that man was coming?

—Yes —my father-in-law replied.

That one really broke my heart.

Clean.

Brutal.

No frills.

I felt something inside me turn off and, at the same time, something else was born.

Something tough.

Cold.

Animal.

My son started crying again, hungry and scared.

I pressed it to my chest and took a deep breath.

“Why didn’t you tell me before?” I asked.

“Because I was a coward,” he replied instantly. “I thought Mateo would fix things. I thought I could buy some time. But Ramiro didn’t come to negotiate. He came to take him away.”

Outside, a bang was heard downstairs.

Then the other man’s voice, dry and impatient.

—Ernesto! Time’s up.

Don Ernesto spoke quickly.

—Listen to me. In the bathroom there’s a small window that looks out onto the roof of the laundry room. Below it is an old water tank and then the neighbor’s yard wall. If I help you from outside, you can get the child in first.

I looked towards the bathroom.

The little window was small.

Ridiculous.

But it was something.

—And you? —I asked.

—I’ll keep him entertained.

—Why should I trust you?

A heavy silence came from the other side.

Then came an unexpected answer.

—Because I already failed my wife once when she left Mateo in my care… and I’m not going to fail you.

I didn’t have time to think.

Something broke downstairs.

A piece of furniture.

A door.

Ramiro was losing patience.

I moved the chair, ran to the bathroom, and climbed onto the toilet lid with the baby wrapped in a blanket.

I heard Don Ernesto hurrying downstairs.

Then screams.

“You’re not going to touch that child!” he roared with a strength I had never known him to possess.

The explosion was immediate.

Blows.

Struggling.

A groan.

I opened the little window with clumsy hands.

The rain hit my face.

The ceiling of the laundry room was wet and slippery, glistening in the darkness.

I barely fit.

The child barely fit.

First I took one leg out.

Then the other one.

The pain in my stomach was unbearable.

I felt like the stitches were going to open.

But I didn’t stop.

I crawled across the tiles, holding my son close to my chest so he wouldn’t slip.

Downstairs, inside the house, the banging continued.

Then I heard a muffled scream.

Don Ernesto’s.

Then a short silence.

Too short.

And then steps.

Steps towards the kitchen.

Steps towards the patio.

Ramiro had let my father-in-law go.

He was coming for me.

I forced myself to keep going.

I reached the edge of the roof.

The old water tank was underneath, just as he said.

Further down, the fence.

And on the other side, the neighbor’s house.

One bad fall could kill us both.

But staying was worse.

I sat down as best I could, held the baby tight, and lowered one leg first, looking for support.

It didn’t arrive.

I went down further.

The wet tile gave way under my weight and I slipped.

I fell, hitting my hip against the water tank.

The pain blurred my vision.

But I didn’t let go of the child.

I never let go of it.

The patio door opened behind me.

“There it is!” shouted Ramiro.

I didn’t think.

I jumped from the water tank to the fence with a strength I didn’t know I had.

My knee hit the edge.

My skin opened up.

But I managed to hold on.

On the other side, a woman turned on a light.

“Who’s there?” a voice shouted.

“Help me!” I cried, weeping for the first time. “Please, help me!”

The neighbor came out into the yard with a broom in her hand, saw my soaked robe, the blood on my legs, and the baby pressed against my chest.

And he understood.

There are women who don’t need explanations.

They just watch.

And they act.

“Get in!” he yelled at me, opening the back door.

I let myself fall to the other side of the fence, almost on my knees.

She slammed the door shut and slid the bolt just as Ramiro reached the wall.

“Open up, you damn old woman!” he roared.

The neighbor didn’t move.

He took out his cell phone and dialed.

“The police are on their way,” he said, without taking his eyes off her.

Ramiro hesitated.

He looked back.

He heard sirens in the distance.

And he ran out of my father-in-law’s yard like a hunted rat.

I collapsed on that woman’s kitchen floor, trembling, with my son crying on my chest and the whole world shattered.

The police arrived within minutes.

They found Don Ernesto beaten, with a cut above his eye and two cracked ribs, but alive.

Lively.

And willing to talk.

He spoke that same night.

He told everything.

Loans.

The threats.

Matthew’s messages.

The promise to hand over the child in exchange for paying off part of the debt.

She also said that she regretted it as soon as she saw her grandson in her arms.

He tried to buy time.

That’s why he always came up with food, checking that I was still locked up, that no one had touched me, that I was still safe.

My chills were not madness.

It had been my body reading the terror that floated in that house.

Mateo was arrested two days later at the Monterrey bus station.

He didn’t come to save us.

He came to confirm that the deal would be honored.

When I saw him in handcuffs, he lowered his gaze.

He wasn’t even able to apologize to me.

He only said:

—I was planning to get it back later.

Recover it.

As if he were talking about an object.

As if our child were not a life.

As if I hadn’t given birth to blood, pain, and fear to bring him into the world.

I filed for divorce as soon as I left the hospital where I was taken because of the fall and bleeding.

I stayed for a while at that neighbor Alma’s house, until my mother could come and get me.

Don Ernesto testified against his own son.

She cried when she did it.

But he declared.

Sometimes he comes to see us.

He never enters without warning.

He never goes up a staircase without calling me from the bottom first.

And when she holds her grandson, she does so with a mixture of love and guilt that never fades.

I don’t know if I’ll ever fully forgive him.

Not Mateo.

Don Ernesto… perhaps not either.

But I know something.

The night I heard those footsteps on the stairs, I thought I was alone.

And it wasn’t.

Because even though danger had already entered the house, it had also awakened in me a strength I didn’t know existed.

That of a mother who has just given birth.

The one of a wounded woman.

The story of someone who understood, too late, that the monster doesn’t always have the face of a stranger.

Sometimes he kisses your forehead.

It tells you to resist.

And it leaves you asleep in the lion’s den.