At 2:30 a.m., as I walked past my mother-in-law’s room, I heard my husband whisper something that froze me.
“I can’t do this anymore, Mom… I don’t know how long I can keep pretending.”
Mateo often checked on Elena at night—she always had some excuse: insomnia, dizziness, anxiety. That wasn’t unusual.
What was different… was his voice.
Low. Fragile. Intimate.
I pressed myself against the hallway wall, rain pounding the windows, my chest tightening. Then Elena spoke softly:
“Lower your voice. You’ll wake her.”
“Maybe it’s time she wakes up,” Mateo replied.
A chill ran through me.
The door was slightly open. I looked inside.
Mateo sat on the edge of her bed. Elena, wrapped in a burgundy robe, gently caressed his face—too slowly, too deliberately for a mother. Her fingers traced his jaw like it was familiar territory. Mateo’s eyes were closed.
My stomach twisted.
“I warned you before the wedding,” she murmured. “That girl would never understand you.”
“Don’t talk about Camila like that.”
“Then stop acting like I’m the problem.”
The silence between them felt heavy, almost alive. I didn’t fully understand—but my body did. Something was wrong.
I stepped back.
The floor creaked.
Inside, everything went still.
“Who’s there?” Elena called.
I panicked, rushed back to our room, and pretended to be asleep. Moments later, Mateo entered. I felt him standing beside the bed, lingering too long.
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