I wasn’t supposed to be home yet.
I’d left my sister early, thinking I’d surprise my husband, Javier, and spend a quiet evening with him and our baby, Dante. But walking through the door, keys still in hand, I froze.
There he was—Javier—dressed as the devil, mid-leap over our six-month-old lying on a mattress.
“What the hell are you doing?!” I screamed, heart racing. His mother calmly filmed the whole thing, smiling like it was completely normal.
“It’s El Colacho,” he explained. “A Spanish tradition to protect babies from evil spirits.”
I was stunned. He hadn’t told me. What if he’d slipped? What if Dante got hurt?
He insisted it was safe, something his village did for generations. But I felt betrayed—not because of the tradition, but because I wasn’t told. I wasn’t included.
“I deserve to know what’s happening with our son,” I said. “We’re a team.”
Javier apologized. He hadn’t meant to hurt or exclude me. We sat down to dinner—paella, made with love and tradition.
Maybe I’d learn more about his culture. Maybe I’d even embrace it.
But no more jumping over our baby.
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