Teresa Molina. My mother-in-law. The woman who wore piety like a costume but possessed the soul of a shark. She didn’t walk; she marched. I heard her heels clicking on the floor, a countdown clock ticking toward my doom.
“So,” she said. Her voice wasn’t hushed. It was loud, echoing off the walls. “She’s a vegetable.”
“We prefer not to use that terminology,” Dr. Martínez said, his patience visibly straining.
“Call it what you want, Doctor. She’s a husk,” Teresa snapped. “My son is devastated. He has a newborn to raise alone. We need to be practical. How long do we have to keep this… charade going before we can stop bleeding money?”
I felt a phantom tear try to form in my eye, but my tear ducts wouldn’t obey. I am right here, Teresa. I am the mother of your grandchild.
“Legal protocol and hospital ethics require a waiting period,” the doctor explained stiffly. “Thirty days is the standard observation window for this level of trauma.”
“Thirty days,” Teresa repeated. I could practically hear her doing the math in her head. “That brings us to the 24th. Fine. That is manageable.”