Pregnant women walked slowly through the hallway, supported by their husbands.
Some smiled while gently holding their bellies. Others cried softly as they looked at ultrasound images filled with hope.
“Elena, look… he has your father’s eyes.”
“No, that nose is definitely yours.”
Those soft, joyful voices felt like tiny needles piercing Elena Morales’s heart again and again.
She lowered her gaze and tightened her grip on the ultrasound report in her hands.
On that cold white paper, the words were clear:
Triplets. Sixteen weeks.
Elena stood frozen outside the maternity ward for nearly a full minute. Then, without a word, she slipped the paper into her worn bag and walked away.
Inside the elevator, a young couple debated where to buy a stroller—whether to purchase one locally or import it from abroad.
“Let’s just get the safest one,” the husband said, smiling. “Price doesn’t matter.”
His wife laughed softly. “You always overspend.”
Elena stared at the floor numbers blinking above the door.
Her eyes filled with tears.
But she refused to cry.
Not here.
Not among people who were happy.
Outside, the July heat of Mexico City hit her immediately.
