She had just given birth to her baby when her husband arrived and asked for a divorce so he could leave with another woman. Feeling humiliated and the stitches from the C-section still throbbing, the young mother did something that left everyone speechless. Ana held her 3G baby in her arms, and Kando walked slowly down the hospital hallway. Every step was a battle. The C-section wound burned. Her belly throbbed with every movement, and the pain as she walked forced her to bite her lip to keep from moaning.

Still, she tried to smile because after six years of failed attempts, home remedies, and hormone treatments, her dream of becoming a mother had come true. That day, Juan, her husband, didn’t come to the hospital. He told her he was busy finishing a project and that his mother would pick up the baby. Ana didn’t respond; she just looked down. She’d grown accustomed to his absence since she was six months pregnant. At first, it was work, then fatigue, and then he simply stopped explaining anything.

She didn’t want to blame him either; she just wanted to go home, to cradle her son and put him to bed in the small crib they had prepared with such enthusiasm. She thought of that room where she once thought they would raise a family. The taxi stopped in front of the house. Her mother-in-law got out first to open the door. Ana followed slowly. As she crossed the threshold, she was surprised by the silence. She expected to see Juan smiling and with his arms open, but he didn’t appear.

Seconds later, the firm sound of heels pierced the air. A young woman emerged from the room. She was wearing a tight white blouse, a red skirt, and her hair was dyed light brown. Her perfume was so sweet and penetrating that it filled the entire room. And behind her was Juan. He walked with a calmness that chilled the blood. He didn’t look at his son, much less at Ana. He just stopped and, without blinking, said, “Mother, this is Julia. This is the woman I love, and I want you to know it right away.” The air in the room became so thick it was unbreathable.

The mother-in-law, who had just poured a glass of water, dropped it suddenly. The glass shattered in two as it hit the floor, but no one moved to pick it up. The young woman stepped forward with a smile on her lips that oscillated between politeness and provocation. “Hello, ma’am,” she said ironically, looking at Ana. “I just want you to know this isn’t personal. I’m not stealing from your husband; I’m just reclaiming what belongs to me.”

Her words were like a knife that didn’t stab Ana’s chest, but cut directly into the bleeding wound in her belly, clutching her son to her chest. Ana didn’t shed a tear, but then the baby, as if sensing the strain, let out a soft moan before going back to sleep. The furious mother-in-law pointed at Juan, “What are you saying? Your wife gave birth two days ago. The stitches from the C-section haven’t been removed yet.”

Juan sighed in annoyance, as if the situation irritated him. “Mom, you know we don’t work out. We were married six years ago and just now we had a child. She’s done her part. Now I want to free us both.” The mistress added, “I don’t want her to suffer, ma’am. We’re serious and we don’t want to hide anything.” Ana just looked at them without saying anything. Her legs were shaking. Her face was pale, and her hands gripped the bag tightly. A drop of sweat rolled down her chest to her cheek, but she didn’t wipe it away.

She looked at Juan, not with reproach or questioning, but as if trying to confirm that this was the man to whom she had entrusted her youth. The mother-in-law sat bewildered, neither defending her daughter-in-law nor scolding her son. She opted for silence, letting everyone bear their own mistakes. Ana shuffled into the bedroom, each step a stinging reminder of the wound that had yet to heal. She placed the baby carefully in the crib and instinctively rested her cheek against his forehead to make sure he didn’t have a fever.

Seeing that he was okay, she thanked heaven in a barely audible whisper and sank down on the edge of the bed. With trembling hands, she exchanged the blood-stained pad for a clean one. Outside, Juan was chatting quietly with the other woman as if nothing had happened. Ana leaned over her son, wrapped him in her arms, and whispered with heartbreaking tenderness, “It’s okay, my love. Mom’s here.” In the living room, the young woman was laughing confidently, talking about her idea of ​​opening a shop.

Juan nodded and smiled, but his eyes kept wandering toward the half-open bedroom door. His gaze wasn’t one of guilt or doubt, but rather of a disturbing coldness. Around noon, the young woman stood up. She placed a bag of fruit on the table as a gesture of courtesy. “I have to go,” she said, smoothing her skirt with feigned elegance. As she passed Ana’s bedroom door, without even turning her head, she raised her voice.

Rest, I’m sure you’re exhausted. Don’t worry, whatever has to happen will happen. And so she left, leaving behind an intense scent and another wound that couldn’t be seen, but that hurt just the same. Juan left soon after. Without entering the room or saying goodbye to his son. Ana stayed by the crib, watching her baby sleep with his hands clasped together. Every quiet breath the child took was another pain in her heart. That afternoon, her mother-in-law prepared food for three, but only two ate, she and the baby.

Ana said she was tired, and it was true. She only drank water and ate a packet of stale cookies from her maternity bag. Ana lay on her side, stroking her son’s hair with her eyes open. She didn’t sleep, she didn’t cry, she didn’t react. Her mind was empty, save for one phrase that echoed: “I don’t steal anything, I only claim what belongs to me.” But to claim that man never belonged to anyone, she thought. Ana understood that what she believed to be a home was only a temporary stop for a man who never knew how to love.

Then she whispered to her son, “You’re all I have, and Mommy will take you away from here.” Three days after giving birth, when Ana still couldn’t sit for more than 10 minutes without feeling dizzy, Juan’s lover returned, this time alone. She came in wearing a tight, moss-colored sweater, a knee-length wool skirt, and short boots, as if she’d just come from a mall. She carried a simple but expensive cream-colored handbag. She didn’t knock on the door. Her mother-in-law, who was hanging clothes in the yard, didn’t hear.

The young woman stood in the kitchen as if she knew the place and said in a soft but sharp voice, “Hello, Ana. I came to see the baby and to leave you a gift.” Ana, lying in bed, held the baby in one hand and a hot water bottle on her abdomen. Her face was pale, her lips dry, and sweat beaded her forehead. The baby was weak from jaundice and needed lamps and breast milk. But Ana had lost her milk the day before.

All night long, she had a fever from mastitis, and the pain tore at her. The young woman didn’t look at the baby or ask about Ana. She just walked over and took a pink envelope out of her bag, left it on the edge of the bed, and said, “Here are 50,000 pesos. Take them and go. Don’t hold on. We’ll take care of the rest.” Ana stared at the envelope as if it were a snake, and then the silence was broken by a loud bang. Her mother-in-law, who had just entered with a cup of tea, threw it to the floor, splitting it in two.

The tea splashed on the young woman’s feet, and she yelled angrily, “Do you think this is a market? That you can pay whatever you want and kick someone out like you’re paying for a taxi?” The young woman backed away, somewhat embarrassed, but unrepentant. She shrugged and said, “I thought clearing things up front would be better for everyone. The child can stay with her, we agreed.” Ana looked at her mother-in-law, and she looked back. In that instant, they both shared a different kind of pain.

The mother-in-law said nothing more. She went into the kitchen as if breaking the cup had been enough. The young woman added, “I’m a woman, and I don’t want her to suffer.” She repeated as if she had done a favor instead of humiliating her. Then the young woman left the house, and the envelope remained untouched on the bed. At that moment, the baby cried, and Ana held him in her arms. Every movement was a sharp pain in the incision, but she couldn’t lie down.

The baby cried nonstop; there was no milk, only his mother’s warmth and humiliation in the air. That afternoon, Ana asked permission to take the baby to the hospital for treatment with phototherapy lamps. She couldn’t stay home and needed to get out of that environment. Her mother-in-law accompanied her, while Juan didn’t show up, call, or even write. Ana waited outside the phototherapy room, looking at her naked little boy under the blue light, with those glasses protecting his fragile eyes.

They stayed like that for almost two hours, and at that moment, a dark thought crept into her mind. If it weren’t for him, maybe she wouldn’t be here. But then the baby turned his head, searching for her, his mouth moving as if he wanted to tell her something. That’s when Ana burst into tears for the first time since giving birth. Not a single sound came out, just tears streaming freely down her face. She took out her phone, opened the notes app, and began to write.

The cost of painkillers was 680; sterile pads 380; oatmeal and milk 450; diapers 860; and a taxi fare of 1,000 pesetas to the hospital. She saved the note with her son’s birth date as a password, and from that day on, she began recording everything, even things that couldn’t be measured with money. When she returned, her exhausted mother-in-law spoke to her with concern. “Ana, the baby is yellow. The formula won’t make him gain weight.” Ana nodded and decided to get her milk back. Even if it hurt, even if her nipples were cracked, she couldn’t let her son suffer.

In the kitchen, the lover’s bag of fruit was still untouched. Ana took it to the alley and gave it to a recycling collector. Then she washed her hands, turned on her computer, and opened a design program. An unfinished house plan lay there. She stared at the design for a long time. Then she opened a new file and named it “My Own Home.” That morning, the persistent spring rain lasted from midnight until the third ring of the nearby church.

Ana had just put the baby to bed after the first feeding of the day, still feverish and with cold sweat soaking her back, heating water to relieve the pain in her breasts, when she suddenly heard the familiar sound of a motorcycle. It was Juan who entered without taking off his raincoat. In his hand, he carried a folder folded under a metal clip and a blue pen. He placed it on the table next to the bed where he used to work, but which was now filled with milk and painkillers.

Then, in a cold, dry tone, he said, “I want you to sign these papers.” Ana, with her hand on her chest, breathing shallowly, asked, “What is this? It’s a petition for divorce by mutual consent. I don’t want to drag this out any longer.” Silence filled the room. Broken only by the rain on the roof and the baby’s breathing. Ana looked at Juan. His hair was wet, his shirt stuck to his body, but his eyes showed no doubt. He continued. “I’ll tell you straight.”

Julia and I have plans, and we can’t be in this situation with you. The words cut like a knife. Ana straightened, put down the water bottle, and opened the folder. Two letter-sized sheets were filled with their names, wedding date, and reason for the divorce, which read “voluntary separation.” The pen was there, and Ana felt a heavy pressure on her chest at Juan’s insistence. Her pale, veined hands trembled not from fear, but from pain, anger, and cold.

She tried to sign, but the stroke strayed, leaving a stain like blood. Then she dropped the pen, took a deep breath, and looked at him. I won’t sign anything. Three words heavier than any plea. Juan shrugged, put the pen away, and left, saying, “Have it your way, but you’ll only complicate things more.” The door closed. The wind stirred some tissues. Ana picked them up, picked up the fussy baby, and settled him. Then she opened a cushion, buried her face in it, and remained silent, like a stone waiting for the sun to dry.

That afternoon, the mother-in-law returned. The neighbors told her about the man with the divorce papers. She saw the folder on the table, but didn’t ask, just placed a packet of oatmeal and said, “Eat so you have more milk.” Ana responded almost without a voice. “I’m not hungry, leave it there.” The mother-in-law didn’t insist; she tidied the table and went out to the patio to comb her hair. That afternoon, Ana opened her notes on her cell phone and added, “Divorce papers served on a postpartum wife.”

Reason: woman wants legitimacy, harm, incalculable. Signature, impossible. Since Juan brought the papers, the house grew cold like a winter kitchen without a fire. The mother-in-law followed her routine. She got up at 5, swept, boiled water, cooked, ate salted oatmeal for breakfast, boiled eggs and vegetables for lunch, and sometimes dried fish. She ate alone in the yard, without inviting Ana, but without closing doors or prohibiting anything. Ana, in the attic, suffered pain when moving. The baby slept poorly, drank little, and vomited.

She ran out of painkillers, but she didn’t ask for help. That afternoon, for the first time since giving birth, Ana decided to go out and buy food. She checked her old wallet. It only contained crumpled bills, saved during the pregnancy for emergencies. She took out a 500-peso bill, put it away, and went down the stairs. Every step was a stabbing pain. She bought oatmeal and a preserved egg from a familiar stand. The saleswoman, unaware that she was a new mother, told her, “You should eat it hot.” Ana nodded, sweat running down her back.

Waiting five minutes was torture. Her hands were shaking so much that she hugged the bag of food to her chest. When she returned, her mother-in-law saw her, but only commented. “Going out to buy food after giving birth.” How hard. Ana responded. “I’m used to it by now.” Her mother-in-law said nothing more. Before leaving for the market, she muttered, “My son is stupid. Let him face the consequences.” That night, Ana prepared formula because her breasts, cracked and bleeding, weren’t producing milk. While she fed the baby, she opened her old laptop, slow but functional.

She revisited an old house design, a discarded project, took up a pencil, and sketched a new plan: a 25 m² apartment for her and her son, with a sunny window and a secure loft. She didn’t know if she would sell it, but it kept her busy. The baby slept through the formula. It was 2:30 in the morning. Outside, the wind whistled, and the sound of a bread vendor faded. Ana thought, “If I don’t get up, who will protect my son from people like his father?” Five years earlier, Ana Torres had been a prominent architect.

She designed a series of minimalist, functional student housing. Her last project before leaving work due to pregnancy was a design for a three-story building rejected for not meeting the market. She had it stored in a folder, but that night she decided to look at it again. Dust covered the corners, but the lines remained precise. She modified the design, adjusting staircases, lighting, and bathrooms, and removing unnecessary decorations. She worked until dawn, her eyes blurry and her hands shaking.

At 6:40, the phone rang. It was Clara, a college friend who promised to hire her if she started her own business. She asked for the discarded design to renovate some rental houses. Ana sent the file without correcting the name. Her heart pounded like it had when she waited for the results of her first ultrasound. At 9:00, a message from the bank arrived on her cell phone. Her account was credited with 40,000 pesos for the project design. Ana cried silently as she hugged her son.

Minutes later, Clara wrote to her, “This is just an advance. I paid for the faith you still have.” Ana saved the message, marked it as a favorite, and titled it Reborn. For the first time in months, she checked her bank account, which only had the maintenance fee. Those 40,000 pesetas, though small, were hers, earned with her talent, without asking or humiliating herself. That afternoon, she bought a can of milk with a better formula. Upon seeing it, her mother-in-law asked, “Where did you get the money?” “I redrew an old design for a friend,” Ana replied.

The mother-in-law said nothing; she looked at the can of milk and the baby. That night, for the first time, Ana ate with her. They didn’t speak, but her plate contained hot chicken. Ana thanked Clara by email and opened a new folder on her computer titled “Ana Torres Projects.” For the first time in months, she didn’t name herself as wife or daughter-in-law, but as herself. One afternoon, while she was calming the baby, she heard Juan’s motorcycle. He came in unannounced, carrying a dirty plastic bag containing a can of cheap formula and tiny diapers.

He threw it onto the table. “Here’s some milk and diapers. Don’t write to me saying the baby needs something.” His voice was cold, but Ana, holding the baby, didn’t respond. She just stared at him with motionless eyes. Juan, irritated by her silence, pointed out, “Do you think you’re superior because you earn something with your cartoons? Let’s see if you can raise the baby without my mother.” The mother-in-law, from the kitchen, tried to speak, but fell silent when Juan looked at her. “Mom, she plays the victim, but deep down she despises us.”

He looked at the baby and said, “Your mother only knows how to live off others, little one.” The child cried. Ana hugged him, entered the room, and closed the door. The cries echoed like knife wounds. The mother-in-law, her hands wet from washing rice, looked at the bag of cheap milk and sighed. “Live however you want! I can’t carry this.” Juan sat checking his cell phone, but his hands were shaking. Inside, Ana sang a lullaby her mother used to sing to her as a child. The baby stopped crying, but his lips remained pressed together.

Ana opened her laptop and tried to work, but she couldn’t. She decided it was too much. She wanted to leave and start over. On the 14th, after giving birth, Ana bathed the baby in guava leaf water. His eyes were already opening wider. The incision in her belly still hurt. That afternoon Juan returned, but this time Ana was waiting for him. When he came in, he placed a thin folder on the table. “All that’s missing is your signature. Let’s not drag this out any longer.” Ana took the paper with a determined expression.

Juan smiled when he saw her. You changed your mind so quickly. You didn’t keep the man, but you’re keeping the child. Ana reviewed the document. It didn’t require any property, a house, or alimony, just a handwritten clause. The child remains with the mother. All decisions about his education, care, and life are my responsibility. Juan narrowed his eyes and said, “My son, I’m leaving him with you so you can have peace of mind.” Finally, Ana nodded. The ink looked like blood, not from the pen, but from the cut in her nail where she’d clutched the bed the first night he filed for divorce.

Juan signed and left without looking at the baby. His shoes left muddy marks that Ana didn’t clean. That night, Ana packed little: a backpack of clothes, a bag of milk and diapers, the baby’s papers, and the laptop wrapped in a towel. Her mother-in-law saw her from the kitchen without asking. At 11 p.m., Ana left with the baby. Not wanting to be seen, she took a taxi, hugging her son to her chest. The cold wind crept through her clothes, but she didn’t feel it.

Her mind was filled with plans, appointments, and numbers. She rented a small room near the market. It was less than 10 square meters, with its own bathroom and a window for the morning light. As she laid the baby on a mattress, Ana looked at the yellowish ceiling and sighed. She sent a text to Clara. I’m officially single and free. Clara replied, “I’m happy for you. You don’t need to be better than anyone, just don’t betray yourself.” Ana covered the baby, looking at her peaceful face, and whispered, “You’re the only reason I left there, and you’ll be the reason I’ll never go back.”

The room had stained walls and a slippery floor. The ceiling was low, but for Ana, it was a beginning, a rebirth after nearly dying in her marriage. She paid 10,000 pesos a month, got up at 5:30 in the morning, prepared baby formula, and opened her laptop. The freelance work wasn’t much, but Clara got her clients, designing houses, hotels, cafes, and apartments. Without air conditioning or a desk, she used a plastic chair and a folding table.

In the mornings, she designed. In the afternoons, she took the baby to a daycare center. The pay was low, but it included free diapers and milk for single mothers. One rainy night, the roof leaked onto the mattress. The child had a fever and foam at the mouth. Desperate, Ana wrapped him in a blanket and ran half a mile through the rain to a medical center. When she handed him to the doctor, she was soaked and shivering. When the child was stabilized, the doctor asked, “Where is your husband?” “I’m divorced,” she replied.

“The baby is fine, but you should be more careful next time.” Ana didn’t sleep that night, but she was able to submit the plan on time. The client praised her thoughtfulness, and that month she received a 40,000 peso advance. She spent 10,000 on rent, 2,000 on diapers, 3,000 on formula, and saved the rest. One sunny morning, Ana’s cell phone rang. Clara sent her a link. It was an article titled A House with Sun, designed by a single mother who faced divorce after giving birth.

Ana read it in amazement; it was about her. The design for a simple house, with vines and a skylight, was under construction in Santa Cruz. The photo showed Ana drawing with her son crawling beside her. The comments moved her. I admire single mothers, a small house with great light. Ana didn’t respond; she just looked at her son, who was drawing a house with two figures, one large and one small. In a downtown café, Juan’s ex-lover was reading the article.

She looked at the photo of Ana and her son, then at her own hand holding a cup of tea. She sent the link to Juan with a message. You know what? I was wrong. Juan saw the message but didn’t reply. In the village, the mother-in-law found the article while searching for recipes. She read Ana’s name, saw the photo, and murmured, “Not only did she raise my grandson, she saved our family’s honor.” At the end of June, the heat returned. Ana worked harder. Her designs gained recognition, and a young client asked her to renovate a coffee shop.

“Can you work at night?” he asked. “I draw when my son sleeps from 1 to 4 in the morning,” he replied. Within a week, he sent a detailed plan and received 300,000 pesos. It was the first large payment he’d received in a year. Without thinking twice, he called the landlord. “Hi, I want to end the contract early. I appreciate all your support, but I need more space.” Moving was simple. Three bags, one with clothes, one with the baby’s things, one with the laptop. The new place had a balcony for vines and a space for drawing.

After Ana’s departure, Juan lived carefree. He moved into an elegant apartment with his mistress, but two months later his company fired him for abuse of authority and favoritism. Without a job and without income, the luxurious noodles became instant noodles. His mistress, seeing the change, left him a note on the table. “It was a mistake to mess with you. I just wasted my time.” Juan returned to his mother’s house with timid steps. She didn’t hug him, only saying, “You lost the most valuable thing you had in pursuit of beauty, and look at you now, you have nothing.”

That night, Juan looked through old photos of his son. He tried to call Ana, but there was no connection. He slept in the room where their wedding photo hung. Now it was an empty space. One hot Saturday, Ana and her son, now over a year old, were eating at a cafe. Juan watched them from a distance, holding a red wooden toy. The boy saw him and asked, “Mom, who is that man?” Ana looked at Juan. Their eyes met, with no greetings or tears, just silence.

She squeezed her son’s hand and didn’t respond. Juan left, leaving the toy unopened. That night, Juan wrote, “I want to see my son. You can’t take that right away from me.” Ana read the message but didn’t reply. She laid her son down, feeling his breathing, and whispered, “I haven’t lost anything. I have my son, and I have everything.” One afternoon, as Ana opened the door with her son, Juan appeared at the gate with imported milk, an expensive toy, and a thick envelope.

Her eyes, empty but hopeful, pleaded. The boy, seeing him, hid behind his mother. “Mom, who is that man?” Juan trembled, his eyes reddened, but Ana, calm and serene, said, “That man was someone I trusted, but he let me down.” Juan tried to get up, but his legs gave way. Ana walked inside with her son without looking back. One Sunday, at a workshop for women on rebuilding life after divorce, Ana spoke for the first time. I gave birth, and my husband asked for a divorce.

I ran through the rain without a penny. I drew my first plan in a room without a table. I got by, and one day my son asked me who his father was. That day I knew I hadn’t learned to forgive. I learned not to feel the need to forgive. Silence filled the room. As she left, someone touched her shoulder. Ana turned around. It was her son, who was looking at her with a smile. Thank you, son. Because of you, I don’t need to hate anyone. Ana’s story isn’t fictional; it represents many women who know how to endure, but also to rise again.

She didn’t seek revenge; she only protected her son and herself. When Juan knelt, his son didn’t recognize him, and that day he learned that sometimes second chances don’t exist and that we should take advantage of life when it gives us one.