“Where are you right now?”I was at my sister’s house, in a quiet neighborhood of Mexico City, celebrating my niece’s birthday. The living room was packed—balloons brushing the ceiling, laughter bouncing off the walls, the sweet smell of freshly cut cake filling the air.“At my sister’s place,” I answered. “Everyone’s here.”On the other end of the line, there was a pause—thick and unnatural, like the world itself had stopped breathing.Then he spoke again, and I barely recognized his voice.“Listen carefully,” he said. “Take our daughter and leave that house. Now.”I let out a short, uneasy laugh.“What? Why?”shouted, panic finally breaking through.“Do it right now! Don’t ask questions!”

That wasn’t anger.That wasn’t urgency.That was raw fear.I lifted my daughter and started moving toward the exit, my heart pounding so violently it felt like it might echo through the room. Something was terribly wrong.His voice changed again—tight, forced, barely under control.“Where exactly are you?” he asked.I glanced around my sister Mariana’s living room. Pink balloons floated lazily above us. My niece Lucía sat on the floor tearing open presents while everyone laughed and filmed, already joking about sending the videos to the family group chat.