“…of the baby.” I read the message three times. The first time, I didn’t understand. The second, I felt the hospital floor open up beneath my feet. The third, I looked at Mateo, sitting on a plastic chair, clutching the blue toy car he always carried in my bag, and something inside me hardened like stone. I wasn’t going back.I wasn’t going to cry in front of them. I wasn’t going to let my son grow up thinking that loving meant bowing your head. The nurse called my name. “Mariana Mendez?” I stood up slowly. My face still burned. I could still feel the coffee running down my neck, even though it was gone. It was as if the humiliation had seeped under my skin. The doctor examined me in silence. He cleaned the burn, applied a gauze, and asked me in a voice that was far too careful: “Do you want us to call social services?”