Short Stories of the Supernatural

A Mother's Sin - as told by Abuela

"Come closer, mis amores. Let your abuela tell you a story—not one from a book, but from our own blood, our own past. A story of love so deep it turned to sorrow... and of a sin so heavy, it echoes in the cries you sometimes hear by the river at night."

Long ago, in a village where the mountains kissed the clouds and the stars blinked brighter than anywhere else, there was a girl named Esperanza. Oh, she was beautiful—qué linda, Dios mío! Skin like warm honey, hair as black and glossy as a raven’s wing, and eyes full of dreams. But it wasn’t her beauty that made her special. No, mija. It was her heart. Kind, patient, and so full of love, she could have made the flowers bloom just by smiling at them.

That day—the day of her wedding—was like something out of a dream. The whole village came. Musicians played their guitars under the lanterns, children ran laughing with ribbons in their hair, and the air smelled of roasted meat and fresh tortillas. She wore a white dress sewn by her mother’s own hands, with lace at the sleeves and tiny blue beads like drops of sky along the hem.

And her groom?

Ah... el guapo.

His name was Mateo. And if Esperanza was a flower, then Mateo was the sun—handsome, charming, and the kind of man who made women whisper behind their hands. Even the widows with gray in their braids turned to watch him walk by. Tall, with eyes like dark molasses and a voice that rolled smooth like sweet wine.

Yes, he was handsome. And yes, every girl in the village had dreamed of being his bride. But he had chosen her. Out of all of them, it was Esperanza who he asked to marry. When he slipped that gold band on her finger and kissed her lips under the moonlight, she believed—ay, she truly believed—that love had conquered all.

Even though her sister warned her. Even though the priest gave her a strange look during the vows. Even though, when she danced with him at the reception, she saw how his eyes wandered.

To the seamstress’s daughter.

To the widow with the red shawl.

To every pair of pretty lips not his wife’s.

But still—he married her, didn’t he? And that was enough.

That was what she told herself, as the music played and her mother wiped away tears of joy. That was what she whispered to her reflection as she lay beside him that first night, her heart beating like a hummingbird’s wings.

“He chose me.”

Ah, niños... sometimes love makes us blind.

And sometimes, that blindness leads us to do things…

Terrible things.

But that’s not the part we’ve come to yet.

Let me pour myself some cafecito, and I’ll tell you what happened next.

Okay, where did I leave off....oh yes.....

“He chose me.”

That’s what she whispered to herself, even when she saw the way other women looked at him—like they were still waiting for their chance. Esperanza didn’t care. She had a new last name, a gold band on her finger, and a man who had stood before God and all the village to say I do. What more could a woman ask for?

She threw herself into building a life with him, one stone and one prayer at a time. Their little home sat at the edge of the village, tucked beneath a jacaranda tree that dropped purple petals in the yard like confetti. She painted the walls a soft yellow, hung embroidered cloth over the windows, and grew basil in a pot just outside the kitchen door. It wasn’t much, but it was theirs.

And soon—so soon—came the babies.

One after another, like blessings sent straight from heaven. Her arms were never empty. Her belly never stayed flat for long. A boy with eyes like Mateo’s, a girl with Esperanza’s dimpled smile, then another boy who screamed so loud the priest joked he’d be a preacher one day. The days turned into weeks, then years, and her life was full of feedings, lullabies, and tiny shoes left scattered across the floor.

She was tired, of course. Bone-deep tired. But her heart was full. She’d look at their little faces and feel something bigger than joy—something sacred. The kind of love that makes a woman forget the sound of her own name and only answer to mamá.

Mateo, in the beginning, was just as devoted. He came home every evening smelling of wood shavings and sun, his hands rough, his arms strong. He’d lift the children in the air, kiss Esperanza on the forehead, and eat the stew she spent all day simmering. They’d sit together on the porch after dark, her head on his shoulder, talking about what kind of people their children might grow into.

But slowly, the routine began to change.

At first, he came home a little later. Then later still. He’d mumble something about work running long or a friend who needed help. He stopped bringing her small things from town—the sweet bread she liked, the ribbons she wore in her hair before the babies came.

She didn’t complain. She told herself it was just a phase. A man works hard to feed his family. He needed time to unwind. Besides, the babies needed her attention more. She barely had time to brush her own hair, let alone ask why his shirt smelled like someone else's perfume.

At the market, she’d hear the whispers. Always soft, always just out of reach—but loud enough to leave a mark.

“Did you see him talking to Rosa again?”

“Mateo never looked at Esperanza the way he looks at the widow now.”

“Poor thing. She doesn’t have a clue, does she?”

But Esperanza just smiled and kept her head high. She didn’t believe the rumors. Not her Mateo. The other women were just bitter—jealous that he had chosen her and not them. He came home, didn’t he? He slept in her bed, held their children in his arms. That meant something.

She didn’t see the cracks forming beneath the surface.

She didn’t notice how quiet he had become at dinner, how he no longer asked about her day.

She didn’t see the way her reflection had changed—eyes heavier, smiles slower, her beauty softened by exhaustion.

She didn’t hear the warning in her own mother’s voice when she came to visit and said, “Keep your eyes open, mija.”

No... Esperanza was still wrapped in her dream.

Because when a woman gives her whole self to a man, she doesn’t look for shadows. She looks for light. And sometimes, the light blinds her.

“Now, listen closely, niños... because what happens next—that’s when the dream begins to unravel. That’s when the sin takes root. And once a root digs deep enough... even love can’t pull it out.”