When Sofía was rushed to the hospital after the car accident—her small car crushed by a speeding truck as she left the market with bags of marigolds for Día de los Muertos—Esteban ran until his lungs burned. Seeing her lying there, unable to move, her eyes full of terror and disbelief, broke something inside him that never fully healed. From that day forward, he stopped being just a husband. He became her nurse, her physical therapist, her advocate, and sometimes the only voice she heard all day.

Their house transformed into a small medical ward, cluttered with gauze, ointments, wheelchairs, and handwritten schedules taped to the walls. Esteban woke before dawn to prepare her atolito, fed her slowly, cleaned her, lifted her with aching arms, and then rushed out to do electrical repair jobs after taking an extended leave from teaching to cover expenses. At night, he read to her, massaged her legs with trembling hope, and whispered stories of the future as if words alone could coax her nerves back to life. When one of her fingers twitched for the first time during therapy, he cried openly, convinced it was proof that love could heal anything.