“Mr. Molina is the father,” the doctor continued, his knuckles white as he gripped the bedrail. “He has rights.”
Pause.
“He waived them? In exchange for what? …Cash?”
The silence that followed was heavy enough to crush the building.
“Fine,” Martínez spat. “But I need paperwork. Proper paperwork. I will not hand a child over to a stranger in a parking lot.”
He hung up and sighed, a deep, rattling sound of a man losing his faith in humanity. He looked down at me.
“I am so sorry, Lucía,” he whispered. “I don’t know how to stop them.”
I do, I screamed in the silence of my skull. Just wake me up.
Day 29. 11:00 PM.
They were coming tomorrow at 10:00 AM. That was the deadline. The thirty-day mark where the insurance cleared and the “ethical” withdrawal of life support could be signed.
I had eleven hours to live.
I focused everything—every memory, every ounce of rage, every spark of love for my stolen daughters—into my right index finger.
Move, I commanded.
Nothing.
Move, damn you. For Esperanza. For the secret one.
I thought of Karla wearing my dress. I thought of Teresa selling my baby. I thought of Andrés checking his phone while I died.
The rage heated my blood. It traveled down my shoulder, through my elbow, into my wrist.
My finger twitched.
It was tiny. A flutter. But Nurse Elena was there, adjusting my drip.
She froze. “Did you…?”
I did it again. A clear, deliberate tap against the sheet.
Elena gasped. She leaned in close, her face inches from mine. “Lucía? Can you hear me?”
I couldn’t speak. Not yet. The tube was still in my throat. But I focused on my eyelids. Heavy as lead doors.
Open.
Slowly, agonizingly, my eyes fluttered open. The light was blinding. But I saw her.
“Oh my God,” Elena whispered. She hit the call button. “Dr. Martínez! Stat! Room 304! She’s awake!”
The next hour was a blur of tests, lights, and disbelief. They removed the tube. My throat felt like it had been scrubbed with sandpaper. My voice was a broken croak.
“Lucía,” Dr. Martínez said, shining a light in my eyes. “Blink twice if you understand me.”
I blinked twice.
“Can you speak?”
I swallowed, the pain searing. I needed to say one word. The only word that mattered.
“Babies.”
Dr. Martínez let out a breath he seemed to have been holding for a month. “They are safe. For now. But your husband… he has plans for tomorrow.”
“I know,” I rasped. My voice sounded like gravel, but it was steady. “I heard… everything.”