Before "The Smallest Ant" begins, it is worth naming what the story itself does not editorialize: this is not fiction dressed as testimony, but testimony dressed as fiction. The anecdotes that shape Martha's world — child labor replacing class time, a mother who says leaving simply is not an option despite the abuse, a neighbor who quietly does the state's job of sheltering a child that is not her own — are drawn from lived memory in rural Mexico, where domestic violence rarely intersects with any functioning institution, and where the absence of one continues to reproduce the sexism and normalized violence it should have interrupted. There is no shelter with a mandate, no hotline, no truancy officer chasing down an eight-year-old vendor in the town square — only whichever neighbor happens to open her door. What reads, on the page, as a child's resourcefulness — her hustle, her tenderness toward her sister, her small rebellions — is also a portrait of what happens when the state is simply absent: children absorb the roles adults abandon.
Martha — my mother — frames this collection best, in her own words: "y eso sigue siendo tan ligero en comparación a lo que viví" "and that is still so light compared to what I lived." What follows is one morning. Not the worst one. That, without needing to say it, is the argument.
I invite you to reflect on the parts where Martha was still a child, and the parts where she simply stopped having the luxury of being one. Ask yourself which part you would have called "too much" if it weren't true. Then ask what that says about the stories you're willing to believe, and the ones you'd rather file under fiction. Then ask how much of this is Mexico's past. Geography is not the same as time, and "developing" has always been less a description of a place than a permission slip for everyone else to stop looking.
The Smallest Ant
One after another, the toads break the murky mirror of the puddles, shattering the silence of the muddy lagoon that stretches in front of my house. I watch them jump, and a flash of mischief calls to me. Who will leap the farthest, the highest? Without thinking, I throw myself into the dance, joining their parade of long legs and bulging eyes. Soon, with both hands, I catch one. I feel it pulse between my fingers, inflating and deflating, its damp, cold skin tickling me. I tuck it inside my blouse and, excited, scoop up a couple more.
Paty, my little sister, is still fast asleep— she always misses the best part of the morning. I tell myself that waking up to this surprise is the last thing crossing her dreams. On tiptoe, I make my way back to the house, toads pressed against my chest as I slip into the room where she lies, and in one sweeping motion, I release them.
The first touch jolts her awake, and as her eyes open, chaos erupts across her face. Paty screams—first a muffled gasp, then a shriek that seems to fill the entire house. I see the toads jump from her chest to her arms, and then to the floor. Laughter bursts out of me, unstoppable. It’s as if the laughter starts in my feet, climbs up my legs, and explodes from my mouth. But Paty is not laughing, she thrashes, trying to shake off the toads, flailing from side to side on the bed. Her reaction interrupts mine. “Paty stop moving, you are scaring the toads!” I say in an attempt to calm her down.
“I will tell Ama!” she cries, her face flushed, caught between shock and fury. The toads start vanishing into a world that calls them back, oblivious to our lives.
Suddenly, I feel a firm, strong hand on my shoulder, and everything freezes. It is Ama’s. My laughter cuts off, as if someone had severed the thread holding it up. I turn my head and see my mother, her eyes locked onto mine. She says nothing, but in her gaze, there is a warning that needs no words.
Paty falls silent too, her screams now just echo in the room. The toads have already disappeared, and everything is quiet except for the pounding of my heart, strong and clear, as if trying to remind me that today, I have crossed a line.
I burst through the door before Ama can get a firm grip on my arm. Behind me, Paty’s voice breaks through the air—“Please don’t hurt Martha.” Then I just hear Ama’s footsteps, heavy and fast.
I don’t stop running until I reach the tree. I tell myself that my mother's sharp screams have tangled themselves among the branches I'm clinging to, climbing higher and higher. The farther I go, the weaker her words become, as if the air dissolves them into dust. As if Ama finally feels the weight of her words. From up here, I look down, and I can no longer make out the figure of that woman in her kitchen apron, long black skirt, and checkered blouse, her short, curly hair trembling as if it too, feared her voice.
Something sharp nips at my ankle, I flinch and glance closer. An ant– small, reddish, determined– crawls over the bone of my foot. I brush it away, but then notice another, and another, and I become aware of the trail that marches next to me. I wonder if they’re trying to get away– maybe up here, the world feels quieter for them too.
I pull my knees in and let them pass. For a moment, it feels like we’re all just climbing things to feel a little braver.
Ama finally leaves grunting to the air. It’s time to come down. Back on solid ground, I find Paty’s figure coming out the front door.
“I didn’t mean to wake up Ama, Martha,” she says, her buggy eyes searching for mine.
“I didn’t mean to scare you that much either, Paty,” I say, sticking out my tongue to make her smile. “I have to start my day now—one scolding is enough. I’ll be back after school, I promise. Just… don’t make Ama mad while I’m gone, okay?”
“But that is you, Martha!” she smiles.
“Nooo,” I say, pressing a hand to my chest like she’s just told the biggest lie in the world. And then it comes—the burst of laughter I’d been waiting for, lighting up her whole face.
Then I slip into the kitchen, scolding myself quietly as I grab the bucket of popcorn Ama makes for me every morning. Without looking back, I set off.
Six blocks straight, then three to the right, and I’m in the town square.
Under the soft morning light, I see the bus drivers at their stops, their uniforms neatly pressed, their hair slick and shiny, steaming cups of coffee in the hands of those adjusting their glasses.
Children with gelled-back hair walk hand in hand with their mothers toward school. They are my target, I think. I clutch the bucket of popcorn and step forward quickly.
“Good morning, Señora Magdalena. Hi, Juan, would you like some popcorn?”
Juan’s eyes light up, and his mother, after a sigh, gives a slight nod.
“One, please”
“Ten pesos”, I say with a smile.
One bag sold. I’ll finish early today—I just know it.
As I near the bus stops again, one of the drivers, Señor Luis, calls out:
“Martha, it’s 8:30 a.m.! School’s already started!”
I pretend not to hear him and continue my route through the plaza. With each passing minute, the place empties out, and I savor it like a secret. It’s a warm, comforting moment, as if the rush had left with everyone else. But the peace is only brief— borrowed. I glance back at the bucket in my hands and remember that my popcorn won’t sell itself.
I pick up my pace toward the school, determined to sell the last of the morning’s batch.
The school bell rang fifteen minutes ago. Standing on my toes at the corner of the window, I peek inside the classroom.
Maestra Hortencia teaches with her usual solemnity, as if my absence makes no difference at all.
I plop down on the sidewalk outside the classroom. The sun warms the cement beneath my legs, and as I look down, I see ants again, marching in a perfect line toward their anthill. It seems like they too had no choice but to climb down from the trees.
The creak of the classroom door distracts me. The teacher has stepped out. Without hesitation, I press myself against the wall, holding my breath. Just a few more seconds. When the sound of her footsteps fades, I slip inside.
I slide into my seat by the time Maestra Hortencia returns. She raises an eyebrow, letting me know she noticed my arrival. I just shrug, smiling, as if nothing happened.
“We’re handing out report cards today. Bring them back signed tomorrow” she announces with her usual seriousness.
A tense murmur ripples through the room.
One by one, names are called. My turn comes, and I approach calmly, though my stomach churns inside. The teacher leans in slightly and whispers:
“Martha, I know you can do better.”
My heart drops. I straighten up and walk back to my seat with feigned confidence.
Seated again, I slowly unfold the report card, peeking with one eye closed, as if that could change the outcome. It doesn’t.
Two zeros. Four fives. Three sixes.
My mother is used to sixes, maybe even the occasional five. But... zeros? I bite my lip, staring at the paper, searching for an escape.
Signed. Report card. Zeros. Tomorrow. No yelling. No hitting.
I twirl my pencil between my fingers. Ugh. Then, an idea slithers into my mind. I hunch over my desk, a smile creeping onto my face.
No one will know. No one will notice.
I look at the zero and give it what it lacks most—company.
Carefully, I trace a one beside it.
Now it’s a ten.
I can’t wait to get home.
The school bell rings and I run. My feet barely touch the ground, I feel the wind whistling in my ears like it’s racing me.
In my head, I can already see Ama’s face when she sees my report card. I can see Paty smiling at me too. This time, I’m going to surprise her. I imagine how the screams that used to burst out of Ama, filling every branch of the tree, will turn into a nod, a quiet moment of approval. Paty will be so happy. I can almost start laughing just thinking about it. As I get closer to the house— everything comes to a sudden stop.
Because when I push the aluminum door, I hear people screaming.
Ama’s screams, but also Apa’s.
Only that Ama doesn’t just scream—she cries.
Only that Apa doesn’t just scream—he hits.
I freeze. My stomach knots up, my skin stiffened, the way it does when Apa is near. Something thick and hot fills my entire body. Then I see Paty peeking out from the corner of the mud-and-grass wall outside the house. She’s hiding. Her eyes are swollen from crying, and the moment I see her, my heart starts beating again. I run toward her and hug her tight, as if my arms could cover her ears and pull her away from this.
"You look like a toad when you cry. Do you remember the biggest one? The dark green, fat, bumpy one? You look just like that, Paty."
I try to smile at her, and she gives me the shyest, most broken smile in return. I take her hand, and together we walk to the house next door, to Señora Ramona’s.
I knock hard on the gate.
"Señora Ramonaaa! Señora Ramonaaa!"
The dogs start barking. I don’t know if I yelled too loud or if she was already expecting us, but the door opens almost immediately.
"Come in."
She always has the same expression, the corners of her lips barely lifted. Not exactly a smile, but something close. Her eyes do smile, there’s something in them that seems to already know everything. The dogs quiet down as soon as they sense us, as if they recognize the weight we’re carrying too. They watch us in silence, just like Señora Ramona does.
She leads us to her kitchen, where the warmth of the firewood and the smell of corn feel like a refuge. Without asking, she steps into her clay stove and returns with two freshly made tortillas, dusted with salt. One for Paty, one for me.
"Whoever finishes first wins," I tell Paty. She’s about to protest, but I’ve already stuffed the whole tortilla in my mouth. I smile, cheeks full, almost choking. "I won."
Paty looks at me, and finally lets out a small laugh—half embarrassed, half happy. We move to the couch, and she lies down to play with the dogs.
Señora Ramona turns on the radio, its static hum filling the space, but not my mind. My eyes drift to the floor, and I catch a glimpse of a small ant, carrying a crumb as big as it. I lean in closer, my hand hovering to see its reaction, only to realize that the ant doesn’t stop– it tries so hard to reroute its path even though it has no control over its shifts. I pull my hand back, feeling guilty for disturbing it, and I watch it disappear into a corner.
The silence gets heavy. Paty falls asleep. And the sun is gone.
I tiptoe to the door and carefully close the gate behind me to make my way to the house. Fear creeping up my ankles step by step. But this time, there’s music. I move forward. Without thinking, I push the aluminum door. Ama is on the floor, a bottle beside her. She’s trying to sing, but every note breaks into a sob. Her right eye is swollen and purple. Her lips split open, with traces of dried blood. She tilts the bottle to her mouth. I imagine that every sip must burn like fire.
"And Apa?" I ask. Ama only laughs.
"Don’t talk to me about that man,” she snaps.
"Then why don’t you leave him, Ama?" She sighs. A deep, dry sigh, like a sack deflating. Almost mocking. As if the answer is so obvious it’s not even worth saying. “He won’t change, but we don’t need him, Ama.” I pause for a second waiting for a reaction. “I can sell popcorn after school too, Ama. Today my batch ran out so fast, you can’t even imagi–” she interrupts before I finish my sentence.
“Shut your damn mouth, Martha or I’ll smash it too! You don’t know anything. Anything!”
Ama always remembers.
Ama always remembers with me, but not with Apa.
Martha… she remembers too.
I look at her one last time, but my vision blurs, and my throat tightens.
"We’re sleeping at Ramona’s tonight, Paty and I." I say before I leave.
Ramona will sign my report card.
Like the smallest ant, I keep walking not really knowing where to go. And for the first time, I wonder if they feel the weight of what they carry too.
