From the hallway, Elvira watches without blinking.
The old nanny has been in your house since before Diego learned to walk. She held him when his mother died. She sang to him through fevers. She knew the difference between a tantrum, grief, fear, and real pain.
And right now, her face says she knows you are making the worst mistake of your life.
You ignore her.
Because if you listen to Elvira, you will have to admit you have failed your son.
By dawn, the house is quiet.
Not peaceful.
Quiet the way a house becomes after it has swallowed a scream.
You sit in your study with a glass of whiskey untouched beside your hand. Your eyes burn from four sleepless nights. Your phone is full of messages from Valeria’s psychiatrist friend, recommending evaluation, medication, observation, possible inpatient care.
Words that sound clean.
Words that make a terrified child look like a case file.
You replay Diego’s voice in your head.
Cut it off.
They’re eating me alive.
You press both hands against your face.
A knock comes at the door.
Before you answer, Elvira enters.
She does not ask permission.
That alone makes you look up.
“Patrón,” she says, voice low, “I need you to come upstairs.”
“Elvira, I can’t do this again.”
“You need to come now.”
