Not stable.
Critical.
Still, she was alive.
That was enough.
For now.
By sunrise, news had spread through the family.
Calls poured in.
Texts.
Messages.
Excuses.
Explanations.
Suddenly everyone had an opinion.
Nobody had acted when it mattered.
My aunt Teresa called first.
“Lucía, your father never meant—”
I hung up.
My cousin Miguel called.
