PART 1

— “If my son isn’t here, then you have no place being here either.”

Mariana felt her breath tighten in her chest. One hand pressed against her lower back, the other resting over her seven-month pregnant belly, yet she forced herself to stay calm. In front of her, arms crossed and jaw set, stood Doña Elvira, her mother-in-law, planted in the center of the room as if she controlled not only the house, but everyone living inside it.

And truthfully, that was exactly what she believed.

From the moment Mariana married Diego, she understood that her marriage wouldn’t come alone. It also came with Doña Elvira’s cold glances, her remarks disguised as advice, and her habit of whispering in front of visitors only to raise her voice once the door was closed.

“Girls these days always know where to settle,” she would say. “You can tell when they’re looking for a hardworking man so they don’t have to struggle.”

At first, Mariana tried not to take it personally. She kept telling herself some mothers were simply protective, that things would improve over time, that maybe the woman would soften once the baby arrived. But as the months passed, the tension stopped being just uncomfortable and began to feel threatening.

The house they lived in sat in a quiet neighborhood, the kind where neighbors sweep their sidewalks early and know exactly who comes and goes. Diego had inherited it jointly with his mother after his father died, but out of respect—or habit—he never set clear boundaries. So even though he paid for utilities, groceries, and even Mariana’s medication, Doña Elvira insisted it was still “her house.”

When Diego had to leave for several weeks for work, everything worsened.

At first, it was small things: Doña Elvira would check the cupboards and count the yogurts, enter the bedroom under the excuse of collecting clothes that weren’t hers, open drawers, inspect creams, and rearrange Mariana’s belongings to her liking. If Mariana left a cup in the sink, the woman would complain. If she rested because her feet were swollen, she would say that pregnant women used to wash clothes by hand and never complained.

—My son goes out to work himself to exhaustion and you sit here comfortably —she snapped one afternoon while Mariana warmed soup.

—I’m preparing lunch, ma’am.

—Food doesn’t prepare itself, and it doesn’t give you the right to act like you’re in charge.

Mariana swallowed hard. She knew responding could make things worse, but staying silent didn’t help either. Every day the woman pushed further, as if trying to force her to break.

Doña Elvira’s worst habit began a week later: checking Mariana’s phone whenever she stepped away or fell asleep. Sometimes conversations were moved, other times messages disappeared. Mariana knew because Diego stopped replying after she sent important messages. When she confronted her, the woman didn’t even pretend innocence.

—If you’re hiding nothing, it shouldn’t bother you.

—It’s my privacy.

—Privacy belongs in hotels, not to married women living under my roof.

Mariana wanted to call Diego immediately, but he was in an area with poor reception and could only respond briefly. She didn’t want to worry him. He was working long hours to prepare for their daughter’s arrival. Each time her voice wavered, she stopped, thinking of the baby and the doctor’s advice to avoid stress, and chose to endure one more day.

One more day.

Always one more day.

Until Sunday came.