" I opened the door, and there I was, on the other side of the glass.
On my son’s side.
The side where I should have been, long before him.
I reached out my hand. I saw how my fingers shook, which was strange because I couldn’t feel the trembling, as if that were someone else’s hand, practically in the dark, reaching out. Or as if something
had separated my hand from my body. I touched him. I was surprised at how cold he was. His skin had not only lost its warmth but also its elasticity. My son was icy and stiff, as if he’d been sculptured in marble and death had converted him—for all eternity—into one of the statues above the tombs of kings and nobles to remind the living of the dead who were rotting below. I slid my fingertips along the curve of his nose.
I touched his lips. I stroked his cheeks. I kissed him. Goodbye, my son. Goodbye. I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you. I’m sorry I wasn’t the best mother
in the world for you. The mother you deserved, the mother I didn’t know how to be.
I lifted my eyes. On the other side of the glass, Mama was looking at me with tears in her eyes. Her tears had formed a streak of mist that grew like her grief "

― Carme Chaparro , No soy un monstruo (Ana Arén, #1)