Chapter 1: The Broken Routine (Continuation)

Juan Luis Vega Montes, 52, Morelia, Michoacán.

Breakfast passed in a strange silence. Mariela constantly checked her phone, something that annoyed me, but which I had learned to tolerate. “It’s for work,” she always said when I brought it up.

“What time will you be back?” she suddenly asked.

“I don’t know exactly. The quarterly check-up with Dr. Ramírez is always thorough.”

Mariela nodded without looking at me. She grabbed her purse and briefcase with unusual haste.

“Well, I’m leaving then. I have to get there early. Take care of yourselves. Camilo, behave.”

“Yes, Mom. Have a good meeting,” Camilo replied enthusiastically, oblivious to the charged atmosphere.

Juan Luis felt a chill. In recent months, Mariela had become distant. It wasn’t just the silent mornings, but the nights without conversation, the weekends she spent on supposed “last-minute business trips.” The Mariela who doted on him and Camilo, the one who cried with him in the hospital seven years ago, seemed to have vanished, replaced by a cold, secretive executive.

“Let’s go, my champion,” I said, pushing the thought aside. Camilo was my priority.

I helped Camilo into the adapted van, checked that the wheelchair was properly secured, and we set off. The traffic in Morelia was heavy, which gave me time to think. Seven years. Seven years of not touching a wrench, changing oil, or feeling grease on my hands. The smell of engine oil had been replaced by the smell of medical alcohol and neutral soap. The grief for my old life was a constant shadow.

“Dad, are you okay?” Camilo’s voice brought me back.

“Of course, my son. Why do you ask?”

“You’re gripping the steering wheel too tightly. And you have that face you make when you’re about to fix an engine that seems impossible to repair.” Camilo smiled, his kindness the only engine that kept me running.

“You’re right. I was just thinking about how much I love you, Camilo. You are the engine of my life.”

 

Chapter 2: The Consultation and the Uncertainty

We arrived at Dr. Ramírez’s clinic, a dedicated physical therapist who had worked with Camilo since the beginning. The consultation was routine but long. Dr. Ramírez checked his reflexes, muscle atrophy, and residual sensitivity.

“Juan Luis, Camilo has made slow but steady progress. He maintains good tone in his upper body, but the response in his legs is almost zero. However, in the last month, the atrophy seems to have stalled a bit. That’s a good sign. We need a complete check-up at the hospital, with MRIs and electromyography. The last ones were almost two years ago.”

“Do you think we can see any real breakthrough?” I asked, feeling a faint glimmer of hope.

The doctor sighed, honestly. “It’s a mystery, Juan Luis. Given the severity of the fall, the degree of the injury was high. What puzzles me is the permanence of the symptoms. Even with spinal cord injuries, there is usually more recovery or spasticity. I need to rule out something that might have been overlooked. I’m going to schedule an appointment with Dr. Zaldívar at the Central Hospital; he’s a trauma neurologist.”

We left the clinic. I was overwhelmed. More tests, more expense. But if there was a slight chance…

“To the park, Dad! You promised!”

“A promise is a promise, Camilo.”

We went to the Barranca del Cupatitzio National Park. The fresh air and the sun made me feel a little lighter. As I pushed his wheelchair along the tree-lined path, I noticed Camilo trying to drag his feet slightly. It was a reflex movement, but it made my heart skip a beat.

Back on the road, my cell phone rang. It was Mariela.

“Hello, are you done?” Her voice was tense.

“Yes, we’re on our way back. Dr. Ramírez wants more tests. An MRI.”

“More expenses!” she snapped, with what seemed like excessive frustration. “Why? What else is he going to do? We already know what he has.”

“He just wants to rule out other things, Mariela. It’s for Camilo.”

“Look, just hurry up. I have something to tell you when you get home. And don’t delay, I have to go out again.”

She hung up without saying goodbye. Worry turned into a sharp pang of anger. What was more important than our son’s health?

Chapter 3: The Hospital Visit and the Doctor in Shock

Two weeks later, the day of the appointment with Dr. Zaldívar at the Central Hospital arrived. It was an imposing and cold building. Reception took hours. Camilo was restless.

Finally, we saw Dr. Zaldívar, a young man with a neat beard and piercing eyes. He reviewed the records we brought, the old X-rays, and Dr. Ramírez’s notes.

“Juan Luis, may I perform a physical exam on Camilo and then wait for me outside? I need to speak with you alone.”

Half an hour later, Dr. Zaldívar called me into his office. He was sitting at his desk, but not looking at me. He was absorbed, reviewing a couple of MRI printouts on his computer screen, comparing the seven-year-old ones with the current ones.

“Mr. Vega Montes, please have a seat.”

His tone was grave, not clinical. I sat down, my heart pounding in my throat. Was it something terrible? A tumor?

“I have reviewed the MRIs you brought and compared them with the new ones we just took, as well as the electromyography performed today.”

The doctor paused. He looked at the screen, then at me, and then back at the screen. He seemed to be processing something incomprehensible.

“Mr. Vega, the injury your son suffered from the fall seven years ago was serious, yes. There was an epidural hematoma that compressed the spinal cord at the thoracic level. But the decompression surgery was successful. It left significant weakness, yes, but not the paralysis your son currently exhibits. In fact, eighteen months after the accident, your first neurologist’s notes indicate that Camilo was already moving his toes and that sensation was gradually returning.”

“I don’t understand, Doctor. After that, he stopped improving. He stopped feeling. He just stayed that way. That’s why I sold the shop, to take care of him full-time.”

“That’s where the shock lies, Mr. Vega.” The doctor finally looked at me, his face reflecting a mixture of disbelief and contained fury. The shocked doctor told me: “Your son is not medically paralyzed permanently. He hasn’t been medically paralyzed in years.”

My mind went blank.

“What… what do you mean?”

“I mean that the original injury healed more than you realize. His deep tendon reflexes are hyperactive, which is common, but the current electromyography, and this is what makes no sense, shows that the innervation of the leg muscles is intact. There is atrophy from disuse, yes, but the nerves are sending signals.”

“But, Camilo can’t walk. He can’t move his legs.”

“Correct. And that leads us to two possibilities: a severe psychological injury or… the deliberate inhibition of his recovery. The studies from two years ago showed a suspicious stagnation, but today’s electromyography is key. There is no nerve cut. The spinal cord is functional, not dead.”

My world collapsed. Seven years. My life, my shop, Mariela’s sacrifice.

“Do you think he’s faking it?” My voice was a broken whisper.

“No, I don’t. An 11-year-old boy cannot sustain a hoax like this for seven years. But Camilo has become accustomed to not moving. The most serious thing, Mr. Vega, is that the atrophy we see now is not that of someone who does intensive daily therapy. It’s from someone who spends a lot of time… inactive. Mr. Vega, what kind of medication is he being given? Who has been supplying him with treatment all these years?”

Chapter 4: The Betrayal

I left Camilo in a waiting room with a trusted nurse. I told him I was going to look for some old lab reports that I had “forgotten.”

I drove back home with a cold rage that chilled my blood. “Deliberate inhibition of recovery.” The memory of Mariela tensing up, her haste, the “important” meeting, and her complaint about the “more expenses” for the tests. Everything fit together with horrible precision.

I arrived home. Mariela’s van was not there. She had said she wouldn’t be back until late. I went up to our room. Her cell phone was on the nightstand, which was odd. I took it. It was unlocked.

I opened WhatsApp. At the top, the chat with the contact name: “Héctor Workshop.”

—Héctor: Don’t worry, honey. I told Juan Luis the van needed a deep tune-up to keep him busy. See you at the hotel tomorrow.

—Mariela: Perfect. I already sent him to the hospital. He doesn’t know that Dr. Zaldívar is the one doing the electromyography. He’s convinced it’s a routine check-up.

—Héctor: He’s a fool. He sold the shop, his life, just to stay home and take care of Camilo. He always knew it was the perfect excuse for you and me to see each other without suspicion.

My compadre. My lifelong partner. The man I sold my workshop to so I could dedicate myself to my son. Mariela. My wife for 23 years. The world split in two.

I checked Mariela’s chat with another person, saved as “Dr. G.”

—Mariela: I already gave him the afternoon dose. Camilo complained of back pain, but calmed down quickly.

—Dr. G: Remember, Mariela. The low doses of Baclofen are undetectable in a routine urine test. It just relaxes the muscles so much that he can’t generate voluntary force. He will feel like he can’t move them. I’ll give you more tomorrow.

Baclofen is a muscle relaxant. Excessive doses paralyze. Mariela had not only prolonged the hoax but had been drugging our son.

Chapter 5: The Confrontation

The wait was unbearable. I needed to confront the monster.

Mariela arrived at 8 p.m., laughing as she spoke on the phone with someone who abruptly hung up when they heard the lock turn.

I sat in the dining room, with her cell phone on the table, open to the chats with Héctor and Dr. G.

“Juan Luis, what are you doing here? And Camilo?” Her voice sounded annoyed.

“Camilo is at the hospital. Dr. Zaldívar is taking care of him. The neurologist.” My voice was calm, too calm.

Color drained from her face. “Bu-but… why? What happened to the check-up?”

“The check-up was today, Mariela. The check-up of the lie.”

Mariela tried to grab her phone, but I covered it with my hand.

“Dr. Zaldívar told me that Camilo is not paralyzed, Mariela. He told me that his innervation is intact. He told me that the atrophy he has is from deliberate inactivity. He told me that someone has been drugging him to keep him that way.”

Her eyes filled with panic. “Juan Luis, no! It’s a lie! You’re crazy!”

“Crazy, yes. Crazy with love for my son.” I pointed to the phone. “Who is Héctor Workshop? Who is Dr. G.? Tell me, Mariela. Was it worth the freedom of seeing my compadre, of managing my money, to destroy our son’s life and my life of seven years?”

She burst into tears, but it wasn’t remorse; it was rage.

“You were suffocating me! Suffocating me! It was just you and the shop, Juan Luis. When the accident happened, I saw an opportunity. I saw that you would sell the shop, that you would be here, dependent on my salary, dependent on me, and that you would stay! I didn’t want you to leave! I wanted you to be mine alone!”

“I am not yours, Mariela. I am a father. And you, you are a monster.”

The confrontation was brutal. Screams, tears, the full revelation of a betrayal orchestrated for years. I called the police to have her removed from the house. Then, I called my compadre; the conversation was short, just three words: “I know the truth.” I hung up.

Chapter 6: The Reconstruction

Two days later, Camilo returned home. The police had removed Mariela. Dr. Zaldívar had initiated the protocol.

I sat next to Camilo, who was in bed, and told him the truth in simple words. I told him that his mother was very sick in her head, that she had made a big mistake, and that I was sorry. I didn’t tell him about Héctor. It wasn’t necessary.

“Dad… can I really… walk again?” His eyes filled with a light I hadn’t seen in years.

“Yes, my champion. The doctor said yes. The physical injury healed. It’s the memory of your body that is paralyzed. Now, we’re going to wake it up. Together.”

Camilo’s recovery process was not physical, but emotional and mental. He had to relearn to trust his legs. Dr. Zaldívar and a behavioral therapist worked with him to break the patterns of inactivity that Mariela had induced with the drug. It was a long road, with relapses of fear and frustration.

In six months, Camilo, using crutches, walked across the living room for the first time. I cried. They were not tears of sadness, but of liberation.

A year later, I reopened my workshop, “Talleres Vega II,” in a smaller location. Camilo, 19, was walking with a light cane and was studying online.

The last I heard of Mariela, she was going through a divorce, facing charges for abuse and supplying controlled substances.

My life never returned to the 5 a.m. routine. But now, I wake up early to make coffee and help Camilo strengthen his legs. The smell of coffee mixes with the smell of engine oil that I bring from the shop. The shadow was gone. I had lost my old life, yes, but I had gained a true life, forged in pain, but sustained by honesty. Juan Luis Vega Montes was not just the caregiver, but the father who broke the yoke of a lie to give his son his future back.