PART 1
—My son died asking for you... and you were in a hotel with another woman.
The phrase didn't come out like a scream.
It came out low, dry, full of a calm that froze the pediatric ward hallway in Coyoacán.
Camila Rivas held a blue dinosaur onesie between her hands. It was Leo's, their 5-year-old son. He still smelled of baby shampoo, strawberry syrup, and that warm sweat that children have when they have a fever.
In front of her, Diego Arriaga had just arrived at 2:18 am.
He arrived with his shirt buttoned incorrectly, his hair damp with a strange perfume, and a false expression of a concerned man.
—Cami... my love, I just saw the calls. My phone died.
Camila looked up.
She wasn't crying.
That was what scared her the most.
—You called me 18 times.
Diego blinked.
—Didn't think it was that serious.
Camila squeezed the onesie against her chest.
—Leo thought it was serious. He thought it was serious when he couldn't breathe. He thought it was serious when he pulled my hospital gown and said, ‘Is Dad coming yet?’ He thought it was serious when they put the oxygen mask on him and he still looked for you at the door.
Diego took one step towards her.
—Don't tell me that...
—Don't come any closer.
Camila's voice made 2 nurses standing by the module freeze.
In room 214, behind a half-open door, Leo lay under a white sheet too big for his small body. His plush dinosaur lay next to his arm. The monitor was silent.
But Camila still heard that long beep.
11:49 pm.
The exact moment her world went dark.
Leo arrived with a brutal asthma attack. Camila carried him from the car to the emergency room under a heavy rain in Tlalpan. She was a nurse, had worked in ER for 7 years, and so she understood the look of the doctors.
That look that's not said.
That look that warns you something's going wrong.
Still, she called Diego.
1 time.
6 times.
12 times.
18 times.
Nothing.
—You were in a meeting —he muttered—. With investors. Honest, I couldn't answer.
Camila let out a laugh without joy.
—With investors?
In that instant, Diego's phone slipped from his jacket pocket and fell to the floor.
The screen lit up.
A message appeared on top, bright, cruel, impossible to ignore.
‘Mariana: Last night was delicious. Call me when your wife stops using the kid for drama.’
Diego bent down to pick it up.
But Camila had already read it.
Everything clicked into place: the endless dinners, the fake trips to Querétaro, the cut-off calls, the excuses of ‘I'm driving’, the different-smelling shirts.
—You were with her —Camila whispered.
—It's not what you think.
—Were you with her while Leo was dying?
The scream ripped through the hallway.
Diego was left speechless.
Then the elevator doors opened.
Armando Rivas, Camila's father and owner of one of the strongest transportation companies in the country, stepped out. He wore a soaked jacket, a pale face, and the eyes of a man who had lost something that no amount of money could buy.
—Where is my grandson?
Camila pointed to room 214.
Armando entered.
10 seconds passed.
Then a broken cry echoed out, heavy, like a wall had cracked inside.
When he came out, he no longer looked like a grandfather.
He looked like a judge.
—Give me your phone, Diego.
—Don Armando, that's private.
Armando stepped closer until he was just an inch away.
—My grandson died tonight. Your privacy can wait.
Diego handed over his phone with shaking hands.
Armando opened the chat.
Each message was worse.
‘Camila is exaggerating.’
‘She knows hospitals; let her handle it.’
‘I need a night without nebulizers.’
‘Leo always gets sick when I have plans.’
‘Camila is drama.’
Camila felt her stomach turn.
—You spoke of your child like that?
Diego started to cry.
—It was stupid.
—No —said Armando—. Stupid is losing a wallet. This was abandoning a child who needed you.
Diego tried to step into the room.
—Let me see him. I'm his father.
—No.
—No.
Armando's voice was firm.
