“You’re not going to the funeral, period,” my husband said before hitting me and locking me in a dark cellar. His mother watched without intervening. Ten minutes later, I emerged, picked up a folder of deeds, and calmly replied, “Thank you for showing me who you are.” That same night, they discovered a missing signature that could ruin them completely.

“Your mother is already dead. Waiting for you until tomorrow isn’t going to kill her again,” Mauricio said, snatching the car keys from me.

It was two in the morning in our apartment in the Del Valle neighborhood of Mexico City. My brother Emiliano had just called me from Puebla. Between sobs, he told me that Mom had suffered a heart attack and that the doctors couldn’t save her.

I just wanted to get to the hospital, hold his hand, and say goodbye.

“Please take me,” I begged. “I’m not in any condition to drive. Just take me.”

Mauricio looked at his watch, annoyed.

“The priest is coming tomorrow to bless the apartment, and then two investors are arriving. I’m not going to greet them with a woman crying and talking about death. It’s terrible energy for a business.”

I ran toward the door. He grabbed my hair, pulled me back, and slapped me so hard I slammed against the wall. I tasted blood in my mouth.

Then Ofelia, my mother-in-law, appeared, wrapped in a silk robe. I thought that, for once, she was going to defend me.

“Lock Valeria in the cellar,” he ordered. “She’s hysterical. As soon as the meeting is over, she can go and make a scene. Don’t let her ruin the contract for us.”

Mauricio dragged me to the small room under the stairs. When I tried to resist, he punched me in the stomach and locked the door from the outside with an old iron bolt.

In the darkness I screamed until I was hoarse. They didn’t answer. I only heard Ophelia say:

—Wash your hands, son. Don’t bring that family’s bad luck on you.