Guilty.
Attempted poisoning. Psychological abuse. Fabrication of evidence.
She was sentenced.
And just like that—she was gone.
Life was supposed to get better after that.
And in some ways, it did.
Mariana slowly healed. The fear in her eyes faded. Mateo laughed more, slept peacefully. The house felt… lighter.
But something inside me didn’t.
It started small.
Mariana began locking doors at night—twice, sometimes three times.
She checked Mateo constantly, even when he wasn’t crying.
If he made the slightest sound, she would rush to him like something terrible was about to happen.
“It’s normal,” the therapist said. “After trauma, the mind protects itself.”
I wanted to believe that.
I really did.
Then one night, I woke up at 3 a.m.
The house was silent.
Too silent.
Mateo’s baby monitor—off.
My chest tightened.
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