<\/p>\n
I wasn\u2019t supposed to be home yet.<\/p>\n
I\u2019d left my sister early, thinking I\u2019d 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.<\/p>\n
There he was\u2014Javier\u2014dressed as the devil, mid-leap over our six-month-old lying on a mattress.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat the hell are you doing?!\u201d I screamed, heart racing. His mother calmly filmed the whole thing, smiling like it was completely normal.<\/p>\n
\u201cIt\u2019s El Colacho,\u201d he explained. \u201cA Spanish tradition to protect babies from evil spirits.\u201d<\/p>\n
I was stunned. He hadn\u2019t told me. What if he\u2019d slipped? What if Dante got hurt?<\/p>\n
He insisted it was safe, something his village did for generations. But I felt betrayed\u2014not because of the tradition, but because I wasn\u2019t told. I wasn\u2019t included.<\/p>\n
\u201cI deserve to know what\u2019s happening with our son,\u201d I said. \u201cWe\u2019re a team.\u201d<\/p>\n
Javier apologized. He hadn\u2019t meant to hurt or exclude me. We sat down to dinner\u2014paella, made with love and tradition.<\/p>\n
Maybe I\u2019d learn more about his culture. Maybe I\u2019d even embrace it.<\/p>\n
But no more jumping over our baby.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"