My family went on vacation to Cancun while I buried my 12-year-old son… and when they returned, they were homeless. Without warning. Without return.

n hour, asked the basic questions, and left. When I asked them for help arranging Joaquín's funeral, my mom sighed as if I had asked for an awkward favor.

—Daughter, this week we'll help Veronica and Ruben get settled in the apartment. We've already promised.

—Mom, Joaquín has just died.

—I know, but you are strong.

So I buried my husband almost alone. Solana, my best friend, was with me. Joaquín's colleagues cried a lot. My parents, Verónica and Rubén, arrived late, sat in the back, and left quickly.

Mateo remained in a coma for six months. I read to him, talked to him about baseball, and told him that his dad would be proud. My family visited him three times, always in a hurry.

And one morning in July, Dr. Medrano called me.

—Mrs. Herrera, I need you to come to the hospital immediately.

When I saw his face in the hallway, I knew that my last reason to keep breathing the same way was gone too.

Matthew had died an hour earlier.

That afternoon I called my mom, trembling, and told her I needed help to bury my son.

There was silence on the other end. Then his answer left me colder than death.

—We can't, Angelica. Tomorrow we're flying to Cancun with Veronica and Ruben. The trip is already paid for.

"Mom, Mateo was your grandson," I said, squeezing the phone as if I could break it with my hand. "He just died."

"And I'm very sorry," she replied, her voice dry, "but we spent $8,000 on that vacation. We can't lose that money."

—Are you choosing the beach over my son's funeral?

—You're exaggerating. You can handle this. You always can.

She hung up on me. Before I could breathe, Veronica called.

"Mom told me you're making a scene," she said, without greeting him. "Look, I'm sorry about Mateo, but we're not canceling anything."

—He was your nephew.