I still remember her in the hospital—exhausted, pale, barely able to move, yet smiling as if she had been given the entire world.

“Promise me no one will hurt him,” she whispered.

I promised.

I had no idea how wrong I would be.

A few days later, I was sent out of town for work. I didn’t want to leave. Valeria was weak, in pain, and the baby needed constant care. But my mother and sister insisted they would help.

“Go without worry,” my mother said. “We’ll take care of everything.”

So I left—trusting them.

For four days, I called constantly. My mother always answered. Valeria only appeared briefly on video calls, looking weaker each time.

“She just gave birth,” my mother said. “Stop worrying.”

I wanted to believe her.

But something didn’t feel right.

On the fourth day, I returned early without telling anyone.

The apartment door was slightly open. Inside, the air was freezing. My mother and sister were asleep under blankets, surrounded by leftover food and trash.

There was no sign of care—no warm food, no clean clothes, nothing prepared for a newborn.

Then I heard it.

A weak cry.

I ran to the bedroom.