Story of the Month - March 2026

We dance with a slow movement, a cadence that I mark by sliding my feet with the parsimony that comes from balance, serenity and love. I breathe in the scent of her naked body, a mixture of bath soap and the smell of her skin. His little head against my shoulder, which I hold gently so as not to disturb him. I go over his delicate little body, while I continue with the rhythm of my dance: the little hands, which close as if trying to catch his first dreams; the legs, still too weak to walk through a world full of bitter surprises; the face, where the tiny nose, the meagre chin, the cheeks that I have so often furrowed with kisses are drawn; the dark hair, where the inherited swirls are already tangled.

I pause in my loving scrutiny, I raise my eyes to the ceiling of the room, which a few months ago, with joy, my husband and I painted blue. I try to avoid the tears that struggle to well up in my eyes, I press my lips together, trying not to let my hands transmit tension to the little body I hold.

I manage to put my eyes back on my little boy, the effort to be able to see and not scream takes more energy than I have; even so, I force myself! A slight trembling sweeps through my body, I feel my legs hesitate to take the next dance step, but I manage to do it, I don't want to break the soft harmony of the dance. At last I am able to look without blinking, my mind conjugates with my body to restore serenity, after admitting that I cannot deny the evidence.

I hear the quiet footsteps approaching, the door ajar, gently pushed open by my husband's hand. I can imagine her caressing my face, sliding down my body, holding mine, then kissing it. She moves towards us to join, in a languid embrace, in the calm dance. We form a trio of peace in which the first toys, the baby clothes, the cradle and a lamp from which all kinds of animals hang are silent spectators.

I look at my beloved husband, my parched lips hinting at a weak smile, I know that if I keep my gaze there, nothing will happen, everything will continue as it was at that moment: a quiet dance for three. But my eyes are rebellious and force me to see.
In my left hand I feel the warmth of my baby's skin, in my right hand I feel the heat, the thick texture of blood; years of nursing have taught me where to plunge a scalpel.

As my husband falls to the ground, our dance forever broken, my eyes refuse to watch his life slip away. I close them as my lips search for my child's little arms, which I kiss gently; I close them as a seditious tear escapes from my pupils, feeling on my body the bruises, the abrasions, the pain caused to him who now lies at our feet.

I stop the dance some time later, when my son's little eyes open and his lips smile at me.