I was barred from attending the birth of my grandson, so when they asked me to pay the $10,000 medical bill, I told them exactly what I thought.

The bus journey had lasted twelve interminable hours, but Lucía didn’t care about the backache or the accumulated fatigue in her sixty-year-old legs.

In her lap, she clutched tightly a cloth bag containing a blanket, hand-knitted over months, of soft, cream-colored wool, intended for her first grandchild.

The excitement made her forget her hunger and thirst. She had waited for this moment ever since her son, Marcos, announced he was going to be a father.

Upon arriving at the city hospital, a modern, cold building of glass and steel, Lucía smoothed her hair in the reflection of the automatic doors and walked toward the reception desk. Her heart pounded.