In the hospital, Dr. Medrano explained words that no mother should learn: severe head trauma, induced coma, brain inflammation. Matthew seemed smaller than ever, connected to machines, with a swollen face and blindfolded head. I held his hand and promised him I wouldn’t leave him.
I called my parents that morning. My mom cried a little and said they’d go. They arrived the next day, spent an hour, asked the basics and left. When I asked them for help preparing Joaquin’s funeral, my mom sighed as if I had asked for an uncomfortable favor.
“Daughter, this week we will help Veronica and Ruben to settle better in the apartment. We’ve already engaged.
“Mom, Joaquin just died.
I know, but you’re strong.
So I buried my husband almost alone. Solana, my best friend, was with me. Joaquin’s companions really cried. My parents, Veronica and Ruben were late, they sat back and left quickly.
Matthew remained in a coma for 6 months. I would read him, talk to him about baseball, tell him that his dad would be proud. My family visited him three times, always in a hurry.
And one July morning, Dr. Medrano called me.
“Mrs. Herrera, I need you to come to the hospital right away.
When I saw his face in the hallway, I knew that my last reason to continue breathing the same was gone as well.
Matthew had died an hour earlier.
Esa tarde llamé a mi mamá, temblando, y le dije que necesitaba ayuda para enterrar a mi hijo.
Del otro lado hubo silencio. Luego su respuesta me dejó más fría que la muerte.
—No podemos, Angélica. Mañana volamos a Cancún con Verónica y Rubén. El viaje ya está pagado.
—Mamá, Mateo era tu nieto —dije, apretando el teléfono como si pudiera romperlo con la mano—. Acaba de morir.
