The Secret at 3 A.M.

My name is Margarida, and I’m 73 years old.
I’ve faced many storms in my life, and I truly believed that in old age, I would finally find peace by my family’s side.

After my husband passed away, I left our old brick-and-clay house in the countryside and moved to the city to live with my only son — Daniel — and his wife, Olivia.

At first, I thought I would be happy.
Daniel was now a successful executive, living in a luxurious apartment in the heart of São Paulo.
Everything around him shone — the furniture, the lights, the smiles.
But soon, I realized that behind all that brightness was a coldness that didn’t come from the air, but from people’s hearts.

Nights were quiet.
We rarely sat together for dinner.

“Daniel, aren’t you going to eat with us?” I asked gently, serving the rice.

He didn’t even look up.
“I’ve got work to finish, Mom. You two go ahead.”

Olivia said nothing.
“Just a little, love… the soup is still warm…” she murmured.

But Daniel slammed the spoon on the table.
“I said I’m not hungry! Enough!”

The anger in his eyes froze me.
That look — cold, sharp — it was the same one my late husband had before… before he started hurting me.

Olivia stayed quiet, forcing a smile.
“It’s nothing, Mom… he’s just tired.”

But I saw it.
On her wrist — a dark purple bruise, fresh, unmistakable.

I said nothing, but my heart screamed in silence.

That night, I woke up to the sound of running water.
The clock showed 3 a.m.

I frowned.
“Why is Daniel showering at this hour?”

But the sound wasn’t steady. It came mixed with something else — crying… or moaning.
I walked slowly toward the bathroom and saw the light seeping through the crack in the door.

My hands trembled as I leaned closer and peeked through the narrow gap.

And what I saw made my knees give out.

Daniel wasn’t alone.
Inside, Olivia was sitting on the floor, drenched, sobbing uncontrollably.
Daniel was kneeling in front of her, washing his hands in panic, whispering over and over:
— “I swear… I didn’t mean to… I didn’t mean to…”

Blood trickled down the drain, swirling with the water.

I screamed.
— “Daniel! What have you done?!”

He turned to me, pale and trembling.
— “Mom… it was an accident… I lost control…”

I ran to her. There was a deep cut on her arm, but she was still breathing.
With shaking hands, I called the ambulance.

Those few minutes felt like an eternity.
Daniel sobbed nonstop, begging for forgiveness, saying he wasn’t himself anymore — that stress, alcohol, and work had consumed him.

Olivia survived.
Daniel was arrested that same night.

The apartment, once filled with luxury and prestige, became a tomb of regret and silence.

Now, whenever I wake up at 3 a.m. and hear the sound of running water or rain against the window, I remember that night —
the water, the tears, the blood —
and I ask myself:
When did my son stop being the gentle boy I raised and become a man lost inside his own darkness?

Even with my heart shattered, I still pray every night —
that God forgives him…
and that no mother ever has to see what I saw that terrible morning.