When my husband broke my ribs, he did not look sorry. He looked annoyed that I was still breathing.
“You always make everything dramatic, Elena,” Victor said, straightening his cufflinks while I lay curled on the kitchen floor. “Try not to embarrass me before the board dinner.”
Our son Mateo stood frozen beside the refrigerator, six years old, barefoot, holding his stuffed dinosaur so tightly its neck bent sideways.
His eyes were huge. Silent.
Victor stepped over a shard of broken plate, picked up his car keys, and smiled at me like I was an inconvenience.
“No one will believe you,” he whispered. “They never do.”
Then he walked out.
The door clicked shut.
For a moment, the house became louder than any scream. The hum of the fridge. The clock ticking. My own breath tearing through my chest like glass.
I tried to crawl toward my phone on the counter, but pain exploded under my ribs.
My vision went white. I tasted blood.
“Mama?” Mateo whispered.
“I’m okay,” I lied.
He did not believe me. My little boy had learned too early what lies sounded like.
He dragged a chair across the tile, climbed up, and grabbed my phone. His hands shook as he pressed the screen.
“Mateo,” I gasped. “Call emergency—”
But he was already dialing someone else.
“For this,” he said, voice cracking, “there is Grandpa.
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