{"id":10027,"date":"2026-01-18T04:52:13","date_gmt":"2026-01-18T04:52:13","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/news5.chainityai.com\/?p=10027"},"modified":"2026-01-18T04:52:15","modified_gmt":"2026-01-18T04:52:15","slug":"bygabrieljanuary-16-2026news","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/news5.chainityai.com\/?p=10027","title":{"rendered":"ByGabrielJanuary 16, 2026News"},"content":{"rendered":"\n
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PART 1
CHAPTER 1: The Cold of Abandonment and the Notification from Hell<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The smell of cheap disinfectant mixed with refried beans from the hospital cafeteria seeps into your pores. It\u2019s a smell you never forget\u2014the smell of loneliness on a government hospital bed. Or rather, in this \u201csecond-rate private clinic\u201d my in-laws paid for reluctantly, complaining about every peso as if it were being torn straight out of their skin.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I had been there for three days.
Seventy-two endless hours.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

My body felt as if a city bus had run me over during rush hour on Insurgentes Avenue. A C-section is no small thing\u2014they slice you open, pull a human being out of you, then stitch you back together and expect you to walk the next day. But the physical pain\u2014the constant burning in my lower abdomen every time I breathed\u2014was nothing compared to the hole in my chest. A cold, dark void, colder than a dawn at the Nevado de Toluca.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\nhttps:\/\/bdaa63d5eca86e556e8acc8b6f866b87.safeframe.googlesyndication.com\/safeframe\/1-0-45\/html\/container.html\n<\/div><\/figure>\n\n\n\n

I stared at the wall clock, its monotonous ticking drilling into my brain.
4:00 PM.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHe\u2019ll come,\u201d I whispered, my voice hoarse from crying in silence. \u201cHe\u2019ll walk through that door any minute with a huge bouquet of roses, the kind they sell at the Jamaica Market, and he\u2019ll tell me traffic on Perif\u00e9rico was horrible.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I was lying to myself.
I knew it\u2014but hope is the last thing to die, right? That\u2019s what grandmothers say.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I am Ximena\u2014the \u201cscholarship girl,\u201d the \u201cpoor nobody,\u201d as my mother-in-law called me behind my back (and sometimes to my face). And still, I clung to the idea that my husband, Braulio Cant\u00fa\u2014the man I fought the world for\u2014would come meet his daughter.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Luna slept beside me in the clear plastic bassinet. She was so tiny, so fragile. She had Braulio\u2019s nose. Seeing her was like seeing him\u2014and it hurt.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\nhttps:\/\/bdaa63d5eca86e556e8acc8b6f866b87.safeframe.googlesyndication.com\/safeframe\/1-0-45\/html\/container.html\n<\/div><\/figure>\n\n\n\n

A nurse came in. She was heavyset, clearly tired of life and underpaid, but with kind eyes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cStill nothing, sweetheart?\u201d she asked while checking my IV.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I shook my head as my vision blurred again.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHe must be busy with the company,\u201d I said, more to convince myself than her. \u201cEnd-of-month stress, you know how it is.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The nurse made that face that says oh honey, you\u2019re lying to yourself, but she said nothing. She adjusted my pillow and left, abandoning me to my demons.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

In that sepulchral silence, my phone vibrated on the cheap wooden nightstand. The sound buzzed like a fire alarm.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It was Sara.
My best friend since high school\u2014the only one who never bought the Cant\u00fa fairy tale.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I picked up the phone. It felt like it weighed a ton.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The WhatsApp message glowed on the screen:<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cXime, I\u2019m so sorry. I swear I don\u2019t want to be the one who ruins your day, but you need to know. Please, for the love of God, don\u2019t open Instagram. I love you, bitch. Hold on. I\u2019m on my way.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

My heart stopped.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A massive drop in blood pressure made my ears ring.
What could be so bad?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

An accident?
Did something happen to Braulio?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

My fingers, shaking as if I were hypothermic, ignored Sara\u2019s warning. Morbid curiosity and panic are a lethal combination.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I unlocked the screen.
Instagram loaded\u2014mocking, colorful.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And there it was.
The first story on my feed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I didn\u2019t even have to search. The algorithm shoved it straight in my face.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It was Braulio.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

But not the exhausted, stressed Braulio I\u2019d been seeing lately. No. This was Golden Boy Braulio. The heir. The Polanco playboy.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He was sitting on a stunning terrace overlooking the Angel of Independence, champagne flute in hand. He looked happy. Relaxed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And he wasn\u2019t alone.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Clinging to him like a designer-dressed parasite was Casandra.
Casandra.
\u201cThe childhood friend.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The blonde with the double last name. The one who always air-kissed me without touching my skin, as if I carried a disease. The woman who scanned me from head to toe, silently asking which street market my clothes came from.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

In the photo, Casandra had one possessive hand on Braulio\u2019s chest\u2014and the other caressing her clearly pregnant belly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Months pregnant.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

My phone slipped from my hands and landed on the hospital sheets.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Bile rose in my throat.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I grabbed the phone again. I needed to read it. Needed it to be a mistake\u2014a bad joke, an old photo.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The caption, written by Braulio himself, said:<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cCelebrating life and new beginnings with my real family.
The Cant\u00fa heir is on the way.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

RealLove #FamilyFirst #BabyBoy\u201d<\/h1>\n\n\n\n

Real family?
Heir?
Baby boy?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I looked at Luna\u2014my three-day-old daughter\u2014sleeping peacefully, unaware that her father had just erased her existence in front of thousands.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cSon of a bitch\u2026\u201d I whispered. The curse ripped itself out of my soul.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Three years.
Three goddamn years of swallowing my mother-in-law\u2019s humiliations. Of being reminded I should be grateful just to breathe the same air as her son. Three years of trying to be perfect. Learning which fork to use. Dressing how they wanted. Erasing myself to fit their porcelain mold.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

All for this.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

To find out through Instagram\u2014while bleeding in a hospital bed\u2014that my husband had another life, another woman, and another child on the way.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The emotional pain was so sharp it turned physical. A stabbing sensation tore through my C-section wound, doubling me over.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I screamed\u2014a dry, broken scream.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

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