I can still feel the dampness of the cemetery earth on my knees. When the old beggar woman shouted those words— “You’re burying your daughter alive!” —my mind refused to process it. My daughter, Sofia, barely 19 years old, had been declared dead 48 hours earlier from a supposed sudden cardiac arrest. I had dressed her in her favorite white dress myself. I had kissed her icy forehead myself at the funeral home.But then, in the midst of that sepulchral silence that enveloped all the guests dressed in black, we heard him.Scratch… scratch… thud.It was a dull, rasping, and weak sound. Someone, from deep within that sealed mahogany box, was desperately scratching at the wood. It was the sound of someone running out of oxygen.I sprang up from the floor. The sadness that had consumed me for two days vanished, replaced by an animalistic strength I didn’t know I possessed.

“Open the box!” I yelled, my voice hoarse, running toward the coffin hanging from the ropes, inches from the abyss. “Open the damn box right now!”The gravediggers, pale as paper, looked at each other, unsure what to do. That’s when Arturo, my husband and Sofia’s stepfather, intervened. But not to help me.You’re crazy, Elena!” Arturo shouted at me, grabbing my shoulders with excessive force, digging his fingers in until it hurt. “It’s the pain, you’re hallucinating! It’s disrespectful to our little girl’s body! Take her down now!”Her eyes didn’t show pain. They showed panic. Cold sweat beaded on her forehead and her pupils were dilated. In that microsecond, the beggar woman’s words made perfect sense: “…because of your husband.”I didn’t think twice. I kneed Arturo with all my might, broke free from his grip, and snatched the metal shovel from one of the cemetery workers. Fueled by the adrenaline of a desperate mother, I began hammering at the coffin’s gold locks. The family members finally reacted and rushed to help me. Between three men and me, we managed to force open the wooden lid.