Alejandro collapsed into the chair, burying his face in his hands, doubt spreading through him like infection, fed nightly by Silvia’s certainty.
Was it possible his own son hated him, that the baby was already something twisted, a creature of will instead of need?
In the kitchen shadows, Juana clutched a rag to her chest, heart pounding like war drums in her ears.
She had seen the child’s eyes earlier, the searching look when he smelled the milk, not hatred, not defiance, but hunger mixed with fear.
Tomás didn’t hate food. Tomás was starving. But the ritual, the bottle, the moment itself was torment disguised as care.
Silvia’s heels clicked toward the kitchen, her floral perfume flooding the space like something suffocating, sweet yet toxic.
“Juana, clean the dining room,” Silvia ordered without looking at her. “And stay away from the bottles. I’ll handle sterilization myself.”
“Hygiene is vital,” she added lightly, a smile curling at the edge of her mouth, as if sharing wisdom instead of a command.
Juana lowered her gaze obediently, but her eyes drifted to the sideboard, where a small sewing box sat slightly open.
Inside, steel needles caught the light, thin and sharp, their glint sending cold through Juana’s spine.
This wasn’t about hygiene. This was about control. About access. About something no mother should ever guard so fiercely.
That night, as Alejandro slept on the couch, exhausted beyond dreams, Juana crept quietly into the nursery.
Tomás lay awake, eyes tracking movement, small fists trembling, breath shallow, as if even sleep felt dangerous.
Juana lifted him gently, heart aching at how light he felt, bones pressing through soft skin like fragile promises.
She whispered soothing words her grandmother once used, old lullabies passed through generations of women who knew hunger differently.
Tomás relaxed slightly, his body trusting her touch in a way it never did with the bottle.
Juana hesitated before the feeding table, fear warring with instinct, then reached for a fresh bottle Silvia had prepared earlier.
Her hands shook as she twisted the cap open, expecting nothing, praying for nothing, bracing for something terrible.
The smell hit her first, faint but unmistakable, metallic beneath the milk, wrong in a way her body recognized instantly.
She tilted the bottle, peering inside, and her breath caught painfully in her throat.
Floating just beneath the surface were tiny sewing needles, thin as hairs, almost invisible unless the light struck them just right.
Juana staggered back, nearly dropping the bottle, nausea rolling through her as realization slammed into place.
Every scream. Every feeding. Every accusation. It wasn’t manipulation. It was torture.
Hands trembling, Juana wrapped the bottle in cloth and hid it inside her apron, heart racing with terror and resolve.
She fed Tomás from a fresh bottle she prepared herself, watching him drink eagerly, peacefully, no scream, no arching back.
Tears streamed down her face as she held him, grief and rage tangling together, sharpening into something dangerous.
Morning came too quickly, sunlight creeping through curtains that had witnessed too much already.
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