My father stood in the doorway, avoiding my eyes. When I tried to sit up while holding Alba, the pain bent me in half. I whispered that this was inhumane.

That’s when my mother snapped.

She grabbed my hair and yanked me toward the edge of the bed.

“Stop whining,” she shouted. “Pack your things and get out.”

A sharp pain shot through my incision. I cried out. My father sighed, irritated—as if I were causing unnecessary drama.

“Get her out of here already,” he muttered. “She’s making me uncomfortable.”

Ten minutes later, Noelia arrived with her stroller and a smug half-smile. She glanced at my swollen eyes, my stained nightgown, and the half-packed suitcase by the door.

“Finally,” she said. “I’ll have this room to myself—without your drama.”

I barely remember how I made it down the stairs. Alba started crying. My vision blurred with tears. The cold air outside cut through me as I stepped onto the street, one hand on my abdomen, the other gripping the baby carrier.

That’s when Mateo’s car turned the corner.

He stopped abruptly when he saw me—pale, shaking, disheveled.

He stepped out, took one look at my hands, my hair, the blood staining my gown—and I said only one sentence:

“They kicked me out.”

Mateo looked up at my parents and sister, still standing in the doorway.

He didn’t yell.

He didn’t argue.