The second baby.
Diego’s face.
Paola’s face.
My mom listened with the calm of women who have seen too many injustices involving men’s shoes.
When I finished, she put water on for tea.
—Now you’re going to do three things—he said.
-Which is it?
—Eat, sleep, and call a lawyer.
-Mother…
—Don’t give me that look. That man already showed you what he’ll do when he feels cornered. You’re not alone, but you’re not going to walk barefoot on broken glass either.
The next day, Diego started calling.
First ten times.
Then twenty.
After messages.
“Forgive me.”
“I made a mistake.”
“Paola means nothing.”
“I was confused.”
“They are my children.”
My children.
The phrase made me nauseous.
The same babies who the week before were proof of my infidelity were now his because a device in a doctor’s office had restored his pride.
I didn’t answer.
At noon, his mother arrived.
She didn’t have black bags with her this time.
She was bringing flowers.
White roses, like those found in hospitals or at funerals.
I opened the door with the chain on.
“Laura,” she said, in a sweet voice. “My son told me everything. It was a terrible misunderstanding.”
Misunderstanding.
I felt the babies moving, although it was still too early.
Perhaps it wasn’t them.
Perhaps it was my anger.
—You called me a disgrace.
He lowered his gaze.
—I was hurt by Diego.
—I was pregnant.Baby Monitor
—We didn’t know.
—They didn’t want to know.
She pressed the flowers to her chest.
—They are my grandchildren.
I stared at her for a long time.
—A few days ago they were a stain on my belly.
He paled.
—Don’t be cruel.
