“Maybe if your wife were gone, she wouldn’t keep you away from your real family.” My mother said that right in front of a doctor, while my seven-day-old son burned with fever in my arms.
My name is Miguel Torres. I live in Mexico City and work as a warehouse manager. My wife, Valeria, has always been gentle—someone who apologizes even when she’s not wrong, someone who rarely raises her voice even when she’s hurt.