No family.
No one to hold her hand while the contractions came harder and faster.
Just a small suitcase, a worn-out sweater, and a heart that had already been broken long before the pain began.
Her name was Lucía Herrera, twenty-six years old—and she had already learned the hard way that sometimes becoming a mother means becoming an entirely new person overnight.
At the front desk of San Gabriel Hospital, the nurse smiled politely.
“Is your husband on the way?”
Lucía forced a small, practiced smile.
“He’ll be here soon.”
Continue on the next page:
