The world was not broken by noise. It went out.
At the hospital, Dr. Medrano explained words to me that no mother should learn: severe head trauma, induced coma, brain inflammation. Mateo seemed smaller than ever, connected to machines, with a swollen face and a bandaged head. I took his hand and promised him I wouldn’t leave him.
I called my parents that morning. My mom cried a little and said they were going. They arrived the next day, stayed for an hour, asked the basics and left. When I asked them for help preparing Joaquín’s funeral, my mother sighed as if I had asked for an awkward favor.
—Daughter, this week we will help Verónica and Rubén to settle better in the apartment. We already committed.
—Mom, Joaquín just died.
—I know, but you are strong.
So I buried my husband almost alone. Solana, my best friend, was with me. Joaquín’s classmates really cried. My parents, Verónica and Rubén, arrived late, sat in the back and left quickly.
Mateo remained in a coma for 6 months. I read to him, I talked to him about baseball, I told him that his dad would be proud. My family visited him three times, always in a hurry.
And one morning in July, Dr. Medrano called me.
—Mrs. Herrera, I need you to come to the hospital immediately.
When I saw his face in the hallway, I knew my last reason to keep breathing the same was gone too.
Mateo had died an hour earlier.
