I stared at the blood on my hands long after it had dried.
At three in the morning, a neurosurgeon approached.
My entire body locked.
“Mrs. Herrera?”
I stood so quickly the chair tipped over.
“How is she?”
The doctor removed his glasses.
“She survived surgery.”
The world stopped.
Then restarted.
I collapsed against Diego.
The sound that escaped me was half sob, half prayer.
“But…” the doctor continued.
The word froze us.
“There was significant swelling. The next forty-eight hours are critical.”
Critical.
Not safe.
Not stable.
Critical.
Still, she was alive.
That was enough.
For now.
By sunrise, news had spread through the family.
Calls poured in.
Texts.
Messages.
