I placed the ultrasound photographs on the table.
For hours, I stared at them.
Two tiny shapes.
Two heartbeats.
Two lives.
That afternoon, my mother arrived.
I had sent her a photograph and one short message.
There are two.
She entered the apartment crying.
She wrapped her arms around me without asking for explanations.
Eventually, I told her everything.
Diego’s vasectomy.
His failure to complete the follow-up testing.
The twelve-week pregnancy.
The discovery of the second baby.
The expressions on Diego’s and Paola’s faces.
My mother listened quietly.
When I finished, she went to the kitchen and put water on for tea.
“Now you are going to do three things,” she said.
“Which?”
“Eat, sleep, and call a lawyer.”
“Mother—”
“That man already showed you what he does when he feels cornered. You are not walking barefoot on broken glass.”
I looked at the ultrasound pictures again.
