“It is impossible to predict,” the doctor replied. “Could be days. Could be years.”

“And the cost?” Andrés asked immediately.

A pause. A heavy, judgmental silence from the doctor.

“ICU care is significant, Mr. Molina. However, usually, after thirty days of non-responsiveness, the family discusses long-term care facilities or… other options.”

Andrés exhaled. A long, releasing breath.

“Thirty days,” he muttered. “Okay. I need to make some calls.”

He didn’t touch my hand. He didn’t kiss my forehead. He turned and walked out, leaving me alone with the terrifying rhythm of the machine breathing for me.

The next visitor brought a scent I knew too well—Chanel No. 5 and judgment.

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.”

She moved closer to the bed. I felt her hand brush my hair—not affectionately, but examining the texture, like checking the upholstery on a sofa she planned to sell.

“Rest now, Lucía,” she whispered, her voice dripping with venomous sweetness. “Don’t worry about anything. We’ll take care of… everything.”

She walked out, and the air in the room felt lighter, cleaner, without her in it. But her words remained, hanging over me like a guillotine blade.

Thirty days.

You learn a lot about people when they think you are furniture. They stop filtering. They shed their masks.

It was Day 12. A nurse had left a baby monitor on the counter near my bed. It was intended to let me hear my daughter in the nursery, a kindness I cherished. But someone had moved the other receiver. It wasn’t in the nursery. It was in the private family waiting room down the hall.

Static crackled, and then, voices drifted in. Crystal clear.

“This is actually perfect, Andrés. Stop looking so morose,” Teresa’s voice cut through the static.

“She’s my wife, mother. It feels… wrong,” Andrés said. But he sounded bored, not guilty.

“She is a line item on an expense report now,” Teresa retorted. “Look at the numbers. With her out of the picture, the life insurance policy triggers. The double indemnity clause because it was a ‘medical accident.’ That’s three million pesos, Andrés.”

“And the house?”

“Yours. Fully. We transfer the deed the day after the funeral. And Karla can finally move in properly. She’s been waiting in the wings long enough.”

My heart hammered against my ribs, a trapped bird.

Karla Ramírez. Andrés’s executive assistant. The woman who brought me soup when I had the flu. The woman who smiled too wide and laughed too loud at Andrés’s jokes. The woman I had defended when my friends called her “shady.”

“Karla is already asking about redecorating the nursery,” Andrés said, a smile audible in his voice now. “She hates Lucía’s taste. Too… rustic.”

“See?” Teresa purred. “It’s a fresh start. A clean slate. We just wait out the clock. Eighteen more days. We do a small service. Closed casket. We tell her parents it was quick and merciful. No drama.”

“And her parents?”

“I’ve handled them,” Teresa said dismissively. “They are simple people from Guadalajara. They are intimidated by the city, by the hospital. I told them visiting hours are restricted. They won’t know a thing until we send them the ashes.”

Then, a third voice joined them. Soft. Sugary.

“Baby? Are you done with the witch?”

Karla.

“Almost,” Andrés said. I heard the rustle of fabric, the sound of a kiss. “Just discussing the timeline.”

“Good,” Karla giggled. “Because I really don’t want to wait to be a mother to that baby. My baby.”

Rage is a powerful fuel. If I could have moved, I would have torn the IVs from my arms and strangled them all. But I couldn’t. I lay there, forcing my heart to keep beating, forcing my brain to record every word.

Reflex, the nurse had said when she wiped a tear from my eye later that day.

It wasn’t a reflex. It was a promise.

Day 20. The nurses were my spies, though they didn’t know it. They gossiped while they changed my sheets, assuming I was deaf to the world.

“Did you see the Instagram post?” Nurse Elena whispered to Nurse Sofia.

“The one from the ‘family friend’?” Sofia snorted. “Disgusting.”

“She’s wearing the patient’s wedding dress, Sofia. I swear to God. She posted a story captioned ‘Welcome Home Celebration’ and she’s spinning around in the living room… in Lucía’s dress.”