PART 1

“Your wife died during childbirth… and the baby didn’t survive either.”

Those were the first words my mother said when I stepped into my home, holding a bouquet of white lilies for my wife.

For three weeks, I had been in Monterrey closing a deal to save our family vineyards. Every night, I imagined coming home to Camila. I imagined her smile, her hands resting on her round belly, her laughing as she told me our son had kicked again.

But when I entered our house in San Miguel de Allende, there was no laughter.

There was only a coffin in the middle of the living room.

Black curtains covered the windows. Candles burned around the room like someone had carefully arranged a tragedy. The air smelled of wax, dead flowers, and something I could not yet name.

My mother, Teresa Armenta, stood by the fireplace in a perfect black dress, her hair pinned neatly, her lips painted a red too bright for mourning. She was not crying. She was not even pretending to.