My name is Laura Méndez, and when everything changed, I was eight months pregnant.

We lived in a quiet residential neighborhood in Valencia, in a house that had belonged to my husband’s family for years. My husband, Javier Méndez, worked long hours as a construction foreman, leaving before sunrise and returning late at night. During the day, I was usually at home with his mother, Carmen Méndez.

From the beginning, Carmen made it clear that she wasn’t comfortable with me. I came from a modest rural family, while hers had lived comfortably for generations. She never openly confronted me in front of Javier, but when we were alone, her comments were cold and dismissive. Nothing I did ever seemed good enough.

Pregnancy didn’t make things easier. I was often tired, my legs swollen and my back aching, yet I was still expected to manage the house—cleaning, cooking, and keeping everything in order. When I slowed down or sat to rest, Carmen would sigh or comment that pregnancy was “not an excuse” to stop being useful. I stayed quiet, convincing myself that keeping the peace was better for my baby.

One afternoon, while Javier was still at work, I was mopping the kitchen floor. I felt dizzy and weak, and my movements were slower than usual. As I stepped back, I slipped slightly on the wet tiles and lost my balance. I fell hard onto my side.