At first, I kept telling myself I was overthinking it.
In the quiet neighborhoods of Guadalajara, where people know each other by name and family matters rarely come to light, I was like any other mother—trying to believe that everything would be all right. That the strangeness was only temporary. That life after remarrying… was on the right track.
My daughter, Sofia, was only five years old.
She had black, curly hair, soft as silk, large, sweet eyes, and such a shy smile that the teachers at Benito Juárez Elementary School always said she was “a very sweet girl.” A good girl. Sensitive. Easily hurt.
My husband, Alejandro, came into our lives as the perfect man.
Patient. Calm. And above all… very “attentive” to Sofia.
“I will bathe her every night,” she said softly. “Children need to feel safe before going to sleep.”
And I… thanked him for it.
Really.
After long days working in a small shop in the city center, barely earning enough to support us, I thought I finally had a real family.
But then… I started noticing things.
Sofia no longer spoke like she used to.
She didn’t tell stories about school.
