Part 4
The weekend that followed was the darkest, most agonizing period of my life. I didn't sleep a single minute. I spent forty-eight hours pacing the wooden floors of the nursery, holding Alma against my chest while the tears soaked into her little pajamas, whispering broken apologies and desperate promises that I wasn't even sure I could keep.
On Monday morning, I didn't go to work. Instead, I drove directly to Beatriz’s office at the DIF, my face pale, my eyes hollow, clutching the official court summons like a death warrant.
Beatriz looked almost as devastated as I was when I slammed the summons onto her desk.
—I know, Mariana. I tried to block it from coming down the pipeline, but the judge’s hands are tied by federal family statutes. If a blood relative proves genetic lineage and demonstrates financial rehabilitation within the twelve-month statutory window, the family court judge is legally compelled to hear their petition before any adoption can be finalized.
—Rehabilitation? —I cried out, my voice echoing off the concrete walls of the government office—. She left a six-month-old baby with a fatal heart condition in a public hospital corridor and walked away! That isn't a temporary hardship; that’s criminal abandonment! Where was her rehabilitation when Alma was fighting for her life in the NICU?
—The grandmother claims she was threatened by the boyfriend—the baby's father—who threatened to kill them both if she didn't leave the baby where someone with money could find her —Beatriz explained gently, sliding a printed copy of the grandmother's legal deposition across the desk.— It’s a tragic story, Mariana. A classic story of extreme poverty, domestic intimidation, and desperation. The judge is going to feel an immense amount of sympathy for her.
—And what about sympathy for Alma? —I demanded, slamming my hand on the desk.— What about the child who only knows my voice? What about the fact that if this grandmother takes her home, she doesn't even know how to operate a pulse oximeter? Do you know what happens to Alma if her oxygen drops for five minutes in a house without backup generators? She suffers irreversible brain damage or she dies! Does the judge care about that?
Beatriz didn't answer. She just looked down at her desk, her silence confirming my worst nightmare.
—Listen to me, Mariana —Beatriz said firmly, leaning across the desk and grabbing my trembling hands.— You cannot fight a blood-line custody petition purely on emotional grounds. The court doesn't care that you love her more; the court cares about legal biology and parental rights. If you want to keep Alma, you need to hire the most expensive, ruthless family law attorney in Guadalajara. You need to prove not just that you love her, but that returning her to a grandmother who has zero medical training and no financial stability constitutes an immediate, life-threatening danger to the child’s medical survival.
I stared at her. —A top-tier attorney? Beatriz, you know my savings. My divorce settlement was modest, and the medical bills for Alma’s specialized formula and equipment have already eaten up eighty percent of it. I can't afford a high-priced corporate litigator.
—Then sell your house —Beatriz said quietly.
I froze.
—Sell... sell my house?
—It’s fully paid off. It’s located in a prime residential zone. If you put it on the market today as an emergency quick-sale, you can liquidate enough cash by tomorrow afternoon to retain Alejandro Morales.
I gasped. Alejandro Morales was legend in the Jalisco legal community. He was a shark—a brilliant, fiercely competitive family law specialist who had never lost a high-stakes custody case, and whose retainer fee alone cost more than most people made in two years.
—Morales? He won't take my case. He only represents high-net-worth clients, politicians, and celebrities. Why would he care about a foster mother and a dying baby?
—Because he is a human being with a soft spot for impossible causes, and his own granddaughter underwent pediatric heart surgery at the exact same hospital two years ago —Beatriz said, pulling a handwritten business card out of her drawer and pushing it toward me.— Call him. Use my name. Tell him what’s happening in crib three.
I didn't hesitate. I grabbed the card, ran out of the office, and dialed the number from my car before my courage could fail me.
Miraculously, after hearing the words "crib three" and "imminent medical danger," Alejandro Morales’s private secretary put me straight through to the great man himself. Forty-five minutes later, I was sitting across a sleek glass conference table from a silver-haired man with piercing eyes and a sharp, tailored suit.
Morales listened to my entire story without interrupting once. He didn't take notes. He just watched me with an intense, surgical gaze, studying the dark circles under my eyes, the trembling of my fingers, and the desperate, unwavering fire in my voice.
When I finished—describing Alma’s heart condition, the daily monitor alarms, and the impending court battle—silence settled over the grand conference room.
Morales steepled his fingers beneath his chin.
—Ms. Fuentes, you are asking me to disrupt settled jurisprudence regarding biological family primacy. It is an uphill battle. The grandmother’s counsel is arguing constitutional rights of kinship. Furthermore, you are a single, unmarried foster mother whose legal status is technically temporary. Why should the court rule in your favor?
—Because biology is not parenthood, Mr. Morales —I said, leaning forward, every ounce of fear evaporating into pure, unadulterated resolve.— A biological relative who abandons a dying infant in a hospital corridor forfeits her right to claim the child when it becomes convenient. But more importantly than that: if the court awards custody to the grandmother based solely on DNA, Alma will be dead within forty-eight hours. The grandmother does not own a pulse oximeter. She does not know how to perform emergency resuscitation. She doesn't even have a refrigerator to store the specialized infant cardiac medications that require constant cold-chain storage. Returning Alma to her is not a family reunification; it is a death sentence.
Morales stared at me for a long, agonizing ten seconds.
May you like
Then, a slow, razor-sharp smile spread across his face. He reached out, picked up a golden fountain pen from his desk, and slid a retainer agreement across the glass toward me.
—Well, Ms. Fuentes... it’s a good thing I hate losing, and I despise bad parents even more. Where do we sign?
