Six months after my mom came to take care of my daughter in Mexico City… I realized her belly was growing bigger and bigger—and that night, I wished I’d never opened that camera.
My name is Larissa Menezes, I’m 29 years old, and I live with my husband, Bruno, and our baby, Helena, in an apartment in the Narvarte neighborhood of Mexico City. I work at a tech company in the Santa Fe area, and the routine consumes almost all of my time and energy.
When Helena was born, our life became even heavier with all the responsibilities piling up. Although we could hire a nanny, I didn’t feel at ease. So I decided to call my mom, Doña Sonia, who lived in Monterrey, to come help us.
From the moment she arrived, the house seemed to come alive again. Everything was in order: hot food on the table, the apartment always clean, and Helena surrounded by love and care. I felt deeply grateful and tried to repay her in any way I could.
I bought her new clothes and started giving her 7,000 pesos a month, but my mom always refused. She said that, for her, the most important thing was that we looked good, and that no amount of money in the world was worth more than that.
Our life continued peacefully until the fifth month, when I started noticing something strange about her body. Even though she was eating less and less, her belly seemed to grow bigger and bigger.
“Mom, you’re gaining weight really fast, huh?” I joked one day, smiling, thinking it was just a normal change with age.
She just smiled, put her hand on her back, and said that her digestion wasn’t the same anymore because of her age. I didn’t press the issue. I tried to believe that was all it was.
But when the sixth month arrived, I couldn’t ignore it anymore. Her belly was as swollen as a pregnant woman’s, while the rest of her body seemed to be getting thinner every day. She was also getting weaker and weaker.
She started having a lot of back pain and couldn’t sleep well at night anymore. I suggested taking her to the hospital, but she immediately refused, saying it would be an unnecessary expense and that she’d soon get over it.
“Doña Sonia is just tired. She needs to rest,” Bruno said.
I forced myself to believe him, even though there was a heavy feeling in my chest that I couldn’t explain.
One day I came home earlier than usual and found my mother sitting on the sofa, her hand on her back, trembling with pain, while Helena played alone on the floor, calm, as if nothing bad were happening.
“Mom, what’s wrong?” I asked, running to her and touching her forehead, which was as cold as ice.
I looked at her belly, which seemed even bigger, and at that moment a thought crossed my mind—one I tried to push away immediately, because I knew it was pointless.
I had already been through a pregnancy. I knew that shape, that size, that way the body changes.
But my mother was over fifty. My father had been dead for years.
It was impossible.
That night I told Bruno how I felt. He was immediately upset, unable to believe what I was implying. The conversation ended in silence, which only made the atmosphere heavier.
The next day we planned to take her to the hospital. But we both got an urgent call to work, and once again the appointment was postponed. Inside me, the fear and doubt only grew.
From then on, I started watching her more closely. Many times I saw her standing on the balcony, her hand on her belly. She said she was just taking vitamins, but I had the feeling she was hiding something. As
the days went by, my mind began to create thoughts I hated having. Against my will, I began to imagine that perhaps she had an old secret, something she never told me, something she brought with her from Monterrey.
Then one afternoon, while I was stuck in a long meeting, I got a text from Bruno telling me I had to get home immediately because something unexpected had happened.
My heart started pounding. I barely remember the way back. I only know I ran out, desperately trying not to imagine the worst.
When I opened the apartment door, I was met with a terrifying silence, as if a tragedy were about to unfold. I saw Bruno sitting there, holding his head in his hands. Helena was nowhere to be seen.
“Where are you?” I yelled, my voice trembling.
Without a word, he pointed toward the bathroom.
I ran there. When I opened the door, I saw a scene I’ll never forget.
My mom was kneeling in front of the toilet, vomiting violently, almost too weak to move from the pain.
Her body was shaking. One of her hands was gripping the wall, as if it were the only thing keeping her upright.
In that instant, everything I had been thinking exploded inside me. All reason vanished. All that remained was that absurd fear I’d been carrying for weeks, the one I refused to acknowledge.
“What are you doing, Mom?” I yelled, unable to contain the rage, shame, and despair that were overflowing from me.
She gradually calmed down, struggled to her feet, and turned to face me. Her eyes were weary, but there was neither anger nor any urgency to explain. That confused me even more.
“Aren’t you ashamed? Dad died, and now… this?” I blurted out, spitting out words I never imagined I’d be capable of saying to my own mother.
“What will people say? Do you want to make our family a laughingstock?” I continued, almost completely out of control of my emotions.
She didn’t answer. She just looked at me silently. Then she slowly lowered her gaze to her belly, as if thinking about something I couldn’t yet understand.
Then, in a low, almost broken voice, she said,
“If you knew what was in here, you would never have said those words to me.”
And, in that instant, a chill ran through my entire body. Because, for the first time, I felt that the meaning of those words was far more terrible than I had ever imagined.
Six months after my mom came to take care of my daughter in Mexico City… I realized her belly was growing bigger and bigger—and that night, I wished I’d never opened that camera.
My name is Larissa Menezes, I’m 29 years old, and I live with my husband, Bruno, and our baby, Helena, in an apartment in the Narvarte neighborhood of Mexico City. I work at a tech company in the Santa Fe area, and the routine consumes almost all of my time and energy.
When Helena was born, our life became even heavier with all the responsibilities piling up. Although we could hire a nanny, I didn’t feel at ease. So I decided to call my mom, Doña Sonia, who lived in Monterrey, to come help us.
From the moment she arrived, the house seemed to come alive again. Everything was in order: hot food on the table, the apartment always clean, and Helena surrounded by love and care. I felt deeply grateful and tried to repay her in any way I could.
I bought her new clothes and started giving her 7,000 pesos a month, but my mom always refused. She said that, for her, the most important thing was that we looked good, and that no amount of money in the world was worth more than that.
Our life continued peacefully until the fifth month, when I started noticing something strange about her body. Even though she was eating less and less, her belly seemed to grow bigger and bigger.
“Mom, you’re gaining weight really fast, huh?” I joked one day, smiling, thinking it was just a normal change with age.
She just smiled, put her hand on her back, and said that her digestion wasn’t the same anymore because of her age. I didn’t press the issue. I tried to believe that was all it was.
But when the sixth month arrived, I couldn’t ignore it anymore. Her belly was as swollen as a pregnant woman’s, while the rest of her body seemed to be getting thinner every day. She was also getting weaker and weaker.
She started having a lot of back pain and couldn’t sleep well at night anymore. I suggested taking her to the hospital, but she immediately refused, saying it would be an unnecessary expense and that she’d soon get over it.
“Doña Sonia is just tired. She needs to rest,” Bruno said.
I forced myself to believe him, even though there was a heavy feeling in my chest that I couldn’t explain.
One day I came home earlier than usual and found my mother sitting on the sofa, her hand on her back, trembling with pain, while Helena played alone on the floor, calm, as if nothing bad were happening.
“Mom, what’s wrong?” I asked, running to her and touching her forehead, which was as cold as ice.
I looked at her belly, which seemed even bigger, and at that moment a thought crossed my mind—one I tried to push away immediately, because I knew it was pointless.
I had already been through a pregnancy. I knew that shape, that size, that way the body changes.
But my mother was over fifty. My father had been dead for years.
It was impossible.
That night I told Bruno how I felt. He was immediately upset, unable to believe what I was implying. The conversation ended in silence, which only made the atmosphere heavier.
The next day we planned to take her to the hospital. But we both got an urgent call to work, and once again the appointment was postponed. Inside me, the fear and doubt only grew.
From then on, I started watching her more closely. Many times I saw her standing on the balcony, her hand on her belly. She said she was just taking vitamins, but I had the feeling she was hiding something. As
the days went by, my mind began to create thoughts I hated having. Against my will, I began to imagine that perhaps she had an old secret, something she never told me, something she brought with her from Monterrey.
Then one afternoon, while I was stuck in a long meeting, I got a text from Bruno telling me I had to get home immediately because something unexpected had happened.
My heart started pounding. I barely remember the way back. I only know I ran out, desperately trying not to imagine the worst.
When I opened the apartment door, I was met with a terrifying silence, as if a tragedy were about to unfold. I saw Bruno sitting there, holding his head in his hands. Helena was nowhere to be seen.
“Where are you?” I yelled, my voice trembling.
Without a word, he pointed toward the bathroom.
I ran there. When I opened the door, I saw a scene I’ll never forget.
My mom was kneeling in front of the toilet, vomiting violently, almost too weak to move from the pain.
Her body was shaking. One of her hands was gripping the wall, as if it were the only thing keeping her upright.
In that instant, everything I had been thinking exploded inside me. All reason vanished. All that remained was that absurd fear I’d been carrying for weeks, the one I refused to acknowledge.
“What are you doing, Mom?” I yelled, unable to contain the rage, shame, and despair that were overflowing from me.
She gradually calmed down, struggled to her feet, and turned to face me. Her eyes were weary, but there was neither anger nor any urgency to explain. That confused me even more.
“Aren’t you ashamed? Dad died, and now… this?” I blurted out, spitting out words I never imagined I’d be capable of saying to my own mother.
“What will people say? Do you want to make our family a laughingstock?” I continued, almost completely out of control of my emotions.
She didn’t answer. She just looked at me silently. Then she slowly lowered her gaze to her belly, as if thinking about something I couldn’t yet understand.
Then, in a low, almost broken voice, she said,
“If you knew what was in here, you would never have said those words to me.”
And, in that instant, a chill ran through my entire body. Because, for the first time, I felt that the meaning of those words was far more terrible than I had ever imagined.
