The man only thought of opening his daughter’s bedroom door to greet her after two years of absence. But when the girl looked up and whispered, “Dad, it hurts. Everything inside him collapsed. What kind of pain can make a soldier cry inside his own home?” The bus windows rattled with every bump in the dry dirt road as they entered the town of Rosario. After two years in a combat zone, Rodrigo only brought one thing with him: the memory of his daughter’s eyes looking at him when she left.
In the cab, the driver adjusted the rearview mirror and whistled a sad tune. Meanwhile, Rodrigo kept his gaze fixed on the distance, where the trees seemed to bend gently under the dim sun. He didn’t expect anyone to greet him, but deep down, a small part of his heart kept hoping to hear his name through the dust of the road. He hoped for little eyes waiting for him by that old fence, but no one was there. He got off the bus with his old backpack, the strap ripped on one side, his boots still covered in dried mud.
The rusty smell of the familiar iron gate reached him like a memory that refuses to fade. Rodrigo paused for a moment. The house was still the same. The walls were crumbling whitewash, as if no one had cared to repair them. The hibiscus hedge was poorly trimmed with dry branches. He remembered painting the gate before he left, but now the paint was dirty and streaked. The whole house was silent, as if life had never been there. Rodrigo climbed the steps and placed his hand on the handle.
The door wasn’t locked. For someone who’s been in war, the most terrifying thing isn’t an unlocked door, but the fact that there’s no one inside with any reason to lock it. He pushed the door gently. The creaking sound echoed, accompanied by the smell of old wood and accumulated damp. The room was still the same as the day he left, but everything had a layer of dust from time. The wooden clock hung crooked on the wall. The second hand was still ticking, but its ticking sounded like a wail.
Rodrigo took off his hat, placed his hand on his chest, and entered slowly. His presence was like a silent plea to return to a story someone else had continued writing without him. Camila was there. Not as he had imagined. She didn’t run toward him, she didn’t scream for Dad, she was just sitting up in bed with her eyes wide open, but not looking directly. She just stared in the direction where someone was, not daring to believe it was who she remembered. Rodrigo remained still for a few seconds.
He seemed afraid of shattering that image, of frightening her, of spreading the fear in her gaze even further. He knelt slowly, like someone learning to enter someone else’s world without hurting them. “Hello, daughter.” His voice was husky, but not forced. Camila pressed her lips together, nodded slightly, and hid her face in her teddy bear. Rodrigo brushed a lock of hair from her forehead. At that moment, Camila whispered, “Daddy, it hurts.” She didn’t say it as a complaint, just as a truth that had to come out.
A truth that had been there for so long that he couldn’t wait for someone to ask it. Rodrigo stood where he was, his breath ragged. He looked at his daughter, at her eyes that refused to meet his, and suddenly turned around, his shoulders slightly trembling. There was no sound of sobbing, but a tear ran down her cheek, moistening her tanned jaw. Then, he slowly lifted the girl’s sleeve. There were bruises on her forearms, not one, but many, in places only those trying to hide them would know.
He didn’t touch them, he just looked. His eyes, which had seen dead comrades who had known the coldness of death, were now red. “What happened here, Swing?” Rodrigo asked softly, but each word weighed like a stone in his chest. Camila shook her head. The movement was slight, almost a tremor. It wasn’t a denial, but a defense. Footsteps were heard in the hallway. The sounds were clear, hurried, as if someone had arrived unexpectedly.
The sound of slippers on the tiled floor. Rodrigo stood up and turned around. It was Patricia, the woman he had married two years before enlisting in the army. Her hair was loose, her clothes fitted her once-perfect figure. In one hand, her cell phone was still on, in the other, nothing. He stood there with his lips pressed together, as if choosing his words carefully. “I didn’t expect you to come back so soon,” he said. The faint smile he’d managed to muster vanished instantly.
“Camila, you must be happy, right?” Rodrigo didn’t respond. He remained upright with the posture of someone accustomed to discipline, not to intimidate, but to avoid making excuses. Patricia looked away and changed her tone. She was calling Mom. I didn’t think she’d come today. Camila approached Rodrigo, still hugging the bear, carefully pressing herself against his side. Rodrigo placed a hand on her shoulder, didn’t say another word to Patricia, didn’t question, didn’t complain. Her silence was enough.
Patricia didn’t move; she gripped the phone tighter. Her face drained of color, and her eyes couldn’t leave the girl’s arm, where the bruises still hadn’t disappeared. Rodrigo bent down and spoke softly to her. “Take me to see your room. I want to see the things you’ve kept hidden all this time.” Camila didn’t speak, just nodded slightly. Rodrigo took her hand and they walked together. They passed Patricia. She didn’t stop them. She didn’t say anything else.
Arms drooping, eyes fixed on their backs. When Rodrigo and Camila disappeared down the stairs, Patricia remained motionless. She looked like a statue that had run out of arguments, as if she had just been exposed to the light of day. Not out of surprise, but because Camila’s body had already said everything she couldn’t deny with words. Some things don’t need proof. Some phrases are so small that many ignore them. But for a father, all it takes is an awkward handshake from his daughter to know.
It’s too late to keep quiet. Dad, that jacket is hanging in the wrong place. The girl’s voice echoed from down the stairs, soft as a shadow, unclear between fear and joy. Rodrigo left the glass of water on the table and left the room. His wool jacket was hanging over the back of a chair, not in the place Camila was pointing at. He knew that, but he also knew that when a child starts saying things that aren’t true, sometimes they’re testing whether anyone will still listen.
Patricia hadn’t come down yet. The kitchen was still warm, with the smell of bread and butter floating in the air like the traces of someone who had recently left. Camila sat upright at the table, so upright she seemed to be tense, her hands hanging at her sides as if she didn’t know what to touch first. Her spoon and fork were neatly placed in front of her, but she was staring at her plate as if she were observing a stage where she didn’t belong.
Footsteps were heard in the back hallway. Patricia appeared with two plates of food. Her breathing was calm and her steps light, but her haste was evident in her eyes. She placed a plate in front of Rodrigo and, with a smile as thin as Bao on a glass, said, “I got up a little late, but luckily everything’s still hot.” Rodrigo didn’t respond immediately. He nodded slightly, his eyes still fixed on Camila. When he spoke, his voice lowered in pitch like a string that has vibrated too long.
You should at least feed Camila on time, right? Then he turned to his daughter and placed his hand gently on the table. “Did you like breakfast, daughter? If you prefer something else, Dad will try to cook it differently next time.” Camila looked at him for a moment. There was no clear answer in her eyes, only a silent caution, as if she were deciding whether she was allowed to tell the truth. Then she lowered her head, her hair covering half her face.
The atmosphere around the table became more compressed. The sound of cutlery rustling and the wind filtering through the cracks could no longer be heard. Rodrigo felt like he was only an arm’s length away from his daughter, but that space felt like the other side of a ditch he didn’t know how to cross. Those eyes, even if only for an instant, were enough for him to understand that there are wounds that don’t bleed, but penetrate to the bone. Patricia poured more orange juice. Her voice was soft, almost sing-song, but each word seemed calculated to sound kind as it cut deep inside.
The girl is good, she’s just not as quick as the others. I teach her how to behave properly, because no one out there has patience with those who answer back. Rodrigo remained silent. His eyes never left Camila’s. He observed every gesture, from how she silently slid her chair to how she tightly gripped the tablecloth, as if that were the only thing keeping her in this world. In that look, he saw neither anger nor rebellion, only the quiet anxiety of someone who has already learned to swallow her tears.
A silence that no one teaches, but that leaves a lasting mark. Since he returned, Rodrigo noticed that many things in that house were no longer his. The sofa where he used to read the newspaper was now covered with a white sheet. The wedding portrait had been replaced by a soulless painting. But the strangest thing were his daughter’s eyes. Those eyes that once followed the sunlight through the window were now as deep as a dry well.
In the old room, midday light filtered through the thin curtains. Rodrigo opened the closet and arranged some old uniforms that still smelled of gunpowder. Under the bed, his hand touched something hard and dusty. He pulled out a child’s shoe, worn at the heel, the lace completely broken and a dried brown stain along the edge. He said nothing, just carried it to the backyard and placed it on a wooden shelf by the sink, right under a pot of cactus that Patricia had planted when they moved in.
The shelf trembled slightly when he removed his hand. Rodrigo stared at that shoe for a long time, as if it had once spoken and was now hesitating whether to say anything. When Camila left for school, Rodrigo silently opened his desk drawer. There was nothing but pencils, a new notebook, and some folded papers. He unfolded one. They were pencil drawings. Each page showed a face without a mouth, without expression. One had only a red stain on its cheek.
Rodrigo carefully folded them again, as if touching a scar that was still raw. That afternoon, Camila sat drawing alone at the dining room table, her face close to the paper. Rodrigo walked slowly behind her, not wanting to scare her. When he stopped, the drawing was still incomplete. A girl alone in the courtyard of a house, the sky made only of colorless crosshatches. There were no umbrellas or adults, just water dripping down the edge of the paper. Rodrigo asked, “What are you drawing?” She jumped and covered the drawing with her hand.
Nothing, just rain. Are you afraid of rain? Camila didn’t reply, just gathered the colored papers and put them in her coat pocket. But when he turned around, he clearly saw a blue stain that had run, forming a drop as if someone had cried on the paper. That night, Patricia went to bed early, claiming a headache. Rodrigo stayed in the kitchen, listening to the ticking of the clock and the distant barking of the dogs. At the table, he opened the old album and flipped through the pages of photos of his wife and daughter when she was little.
Camila’s eyes in those photos shone like new glass. Now they were like two sealed locks. Barefoot footsteps were heard on the carpet. Rodrigo looked up. The door was ajar. Camila was sitting on the threshold hugging a pillow, her hair disheveled, her eyes fixed. “You can’t sleep.” She shook her head. She didn’t move forward or backward. She just looked at him as if trying to see if that face was still that of the man she used to call “Daddy.” Rodrigo stood up and walked toward her slowly.
He sat on the floor next to his daughter. He was silent longer than it would have taken to ask a question. Then he spoke softly. “You know something? Dad would never use his voice to scare anyone. Never.” Camila tilted her head without looking away. She slowly leaned back against his soft shoulder, as if she were afraid of breaking. Outside, the wind was no longer blowing, but the chime still tinkled, as if someone was touching it with a very cold hand. Rodrigo placed his hand on his daughter’s head.
Rodrigo watched from afar, not enough to be seen, but enough to capture every detail of that world he once believed safe for his daughter. He hadn’t returned to that place since Camila started first grade. For two years, the battlefield, the barracks, and the nightly reports of casualties on the border completely filled his mind. But now, in the middle of a schoolyard as quiet as a deserted fair after its last customer, the only thing he thought about wasn’t bullets or military orders, but the girl’s eyes, always lowered, never even looking up to meet his gaze since he returned.
Rodrigo entered the school enveloped in the strange silence of a morning when no one expected anything out of the ordinary. The guard at the entrance nodded to him with a measured gesture, not disinterested, more as if to say that those who return in uniform don’t always bring good news. The hallway in front of him was splashed with early sunlight. The half-open classroom doors resembled mouths half-mumbling, revealing the orderly rows of tiny desks inside, like a formation of children awaiting instructions.
The air smelled of old paper, ink, and the sour residue of plaster from the last winter renovation. A man in a wrinkled shirt, holding a stack of exam papers, turned the corner of the hallway. Rodrigo hesitated, then approached. “Excuse me, are you Professor Tomás Medina?” The man stopped, looked at him for a moment as if trying to recognize someone from another time. Then he nodded. “Yes, it’s me. And you are Rodrigo Álvarez, Camila’s father.” Tomás clenched the papers in his hands with that habit one acquires when one knows difficult questions are coming.
He pointed to a long bench behind a bougainvillea that was dropping its purple flowers like tears. When they both sat down, the distance between them was short, but neither spoke immediately. Rodrigo looked down, following a petal that had fallen right on his dusty boots, and said quietly, “She’s different at home. I wonder if the same thing happens at school.” Tomás sighed. He continued looking toward the courtyard, where some children were running after an invisible ball.
Camila is diligent, calm, doesn’t interrupt, isn’t late, doesn’t complain, but she doesn’t smile either, has no friends, and never raises her hand anymore. Rodrigo remained silent. His gaze fell on the rusty sheeting covering the roof of his daughter’s classroom. “I don’t know what’s going on at her house,” Tomás continued in a deep voice. But when I get closer, she shrinks as if that reflex is already tattooed in her bones. It’s not fear of the teacher, it’s fear of people.
The bell rang somewhere on campus announcing recess, but no one moved. Rodrigo asked in a tone that seemed to contain a muted fury. “Has anyone said anything about Patricia, about how she treats the girl?” Tomás stared at him, then shook his head. In this town, if there’s no clear evidence, people prefer to remain silent. And Mrs. Patricia, it must be said, always arrives punctually to meetings, speaks courteously, always says the girl is well-behaved.
Rodrigo stood up, thanked everyone, and left without another word. His footsteps on the ancient cement echoed as if striking dormant memories. At the grocery store near the plaza, the owner was cleaning the shelves. The smell of soap mingled with that of flour and freshly baked bread. “Rodrigo, Holy Virgin, it’s been a while since I’ve seen you around here.” The woman, already well into her years, greeted him with sharp eyes despite her wrinkles. Rodrigo smiled, barely placing a hand on the counter.
I returned home to see my daughter. Yes, that girl is very well-behaved, but since she’s been living with Mrs. Patricia, she’s barely spoken. Many say it’s thanks to her that the girl is so tidy, so clean, as proper as if she were from a family of noble birth. Rodrigo hesitated, looked around, then asked in a low voice, “Have you ever heard anything about Mrs. Patricia?” The old woman stopped her hand and narrowed her eyes. They say that overly perfectionist women tend to scare away the neighbors, but Patricia is different; she never gets into trouble, they’ve never seen her scream, and the children, you know, each with their own character.
Some are rebellious, others quiet. You never know what’s inside them. Rodrigo nodded silently. He picked up some packets of cookies as an excuse to leave without another word. As he left the store, the sunlight was already falling from one side, and something inside was cracking, like a barely visible fissure in old glass, small, but enough to distort his vision. On his way home, he passed the old houses near the church. An old woman was watering the plants and stopped when she saw him.
Rodrigo, you’re back. You look thinner than last time, Doña Rosa, good morning. Do you remember the girl who lived with us before Camila? The old woman nodded. Her eyes deepened. Mariana, yes, she was also very quiet, like Camila now. One morning I saw her backpack lying next to the trash can, open, empty. No one asked, no one mentioned it, as if she’d been erased. Rodrigo wanted to say something else, but she simply went into her house and closed the door.
Upon returning, Rodrigo entered the kitchen and saw Camila kneeling on the floor, cleaning with an old rag. Her hands were covered in soap, her elbows red, and she had a long cut on her wrist. Patricia opened the refrigerator with one hand while holding a pitcher of water in the other as if nothing were important. He glanced at her and said casually, as if recounting an anecdote, “The girl spilled the milk. I let her clean up. She has to understand that what you make dirty, you pick up.”
Rodrigo watched her for a long time. The girl’s body hunched over the tiles looked like an old shadow. Her tiny fingers rubbed circles in the puddle of milk, as if such an effort were the only way to be forgiven. He knelt beside her, gently placing his hand over hers, not squeezing, just to stop her. Without needing words, Camila looked up at him. Her eyes touched his for an instant, then retreated. Rodrigo took the cloth from her, folded it carefully, and set it aside as if he were closing something bigger than a simple spill.
That night, as he hung up his jacket, he heard a rustle of paper. A brown envelope had been slipped under the door. He opened it. The handwriting was shaky, unsigned. The girl wasn’t the first. Rodrigo stood motionless, clutching the paper. He didn’t blink, as if closing his eyes would reveal an even more painful image. Outside, the night continued as if nothing had happened, but something inside him had just awakened, and this time he wouldn’t let anyone take him away like an anonymous wind.
The atmosphere in the kitchen that day was no different from previous ones, but the smell of detergent penetrated the nose, seeping into every fold of the memories Rodrigo always tried to avoid. Sunlight streamed through the sliding glass, illuminating Camila’s small hands as she wrung out a white cloth in a metal bucket. She wasn’t using the washing machine. The machine, shiny and clean, rested in the corner as if it were only meant for adults.
Rodrigo leaned against the doorframe, half-holding a glass of cold water, his gaze fixed on the little girl struggling to dry the cloth. Camila’s hands bore reddish marks burned by the soap on her tender skin. Each movement was slower, as if even the weight of the light coming through the window made the little girl’s body heavier. Even though she didn’t turn around, Rodrigo could feel her breath catch in her throat, as if one sigh would be enough to make everything explode.
He didn’t need answers. His daughter’s silence spoke for itself. “You can use the washing machine, you know?” he said in a barely audible voice. Camila stopped, her hands still on the fabric. She hesitated for a second, then gently shook her head. “Aunt said my hands are dirty, that I shouldn’t touch electrical appliances.” Rodrigo didn’t respond. He went into the kitchen, took a glass from the cabinet, but his eyes never left the girl. He sat down, looking out at the garden where Patricia was pruning the rosebushes.
She wore thin gloves, her hair tied back, a flawless white dress, a perfect wife, according to the neighbors. Returning from the battlefield makes you believe that nothing can hurt you anymore, but perhaps what hurts the most is when you cross the threshold of your own house. That thought fleetingly crossed Rodrigo’s mind like a long sigh. He left the glass on the table and went to the bottom drawer in the kitchen, pretending to look for a pair of scissors. He carefully opened the second drawer from the left, right where he had once seen Patricia put something away.
Between packets of condiments and napkins, there was a long object wrapped in craft paper, awkwardly hidden in a corner. Rodrigo pulled it out. It was an old wooden ruler with a reddish, dried, hardened stain on one end. He straightened, clenching the object in his hand. Patricia was entering the house at that moment. At first, she didn’t see him, but then her eyes fell on what he was holding. “Why are you going through my things?” Rodrigo looked directly at her.
“What’s this?” Patricia smiled slightly, as if he’d just said something naive. “You’re exaggerating. It’s a ruler for measuring fabric. I use it when I cut.” Rodrigo tilted his head. His voice was flat, firm, like wet earth after a storm. “What kind of fabric do you need to measure with a ruler stained with dried blood?” The question wasn’t harsh, but it cut through the air with a dry, relentless weight. Patricia frowned, walked over, and snatched the ruler from him, rewrapping it in the napkin.
Now you’re spying on me. This is my house too. Rodrigo. He didn’t look away. His voice was deep, but unwavering. Patricia, in this house there’s no longer any room for anything that isn’t true. This house belongs to my daughter and me. For the first time, he used my daughter as a statement, not as part of a family conversation, but as a dividing line. Patricia let out an ironic laugh. Do you really think the girl is innocent? She’s stubborn, quiet, she does what she wants.
“I just teach him how to behave.” Rodrigo replied in a low voice, without needing to raise it, but with enough force to pierce through all appearances. “No one has the right to punish a child in the name of love. You no longer know the difference between being strict and being cruel. You’re used to seeing injuries as part of the price.” The argument grew like waves crashing against Camila’s chest. She slipped slowly toward the back of the laundry room. She squeezed into the narrow space between a closet and the wall, where the smell of old soap and the damp wood still lingered.
No one called her name, no one looked for her, but a small “I am” escaped from her throat, as if even silence could betray her if she wasn’t cautious enough. Rodrigo didn’t hear that sound, but the strange stillness in the house made him turn around. He circled the kitchen and opened the closet door. The little girl was huddled in the corner, eyes wide open, clutching a pillow. There were no tears yet, but her eyes were swollen. Rodrigo knelt, reaching out his hand without forcing it.
Camila said nothing, just leaned gently toward him as if asking permission before taking refuge in her father’s arms. In a small voice, so low that the wind blowing through the door was clearer, she whispered, “I’m sorry. I’m no good, that’s why they hit me.” Rodrigo held her against his chest, those fingers that had once wielded weapons, that had built camps in the cold, now trembled, not knowing whether to hold her tightly or gently. He closed his eyes.
The smell of her hair mixed with chlorine was a truth that pierced his chest. Children don’t have to be perfect to deserve love, and much less do they deserve to be hurt by mistakes that aren’t their own. Patricia stood in the doorway, her arm covering the napkin-wrapped object, as if letting go would make everything fall apart. Her face was pale, her gaze fixed on father and daughter unblinkingly. There was no longer arrogance in her eyes, only the absolute panic of someone exposed by a truth that emerged alone from the darkness.
One can feign kindness in front of neighbors, be sweet with acquaintances, but one can only hide it for so long, which causes a child to tremble when someone raises their hand. Rodrigo sat on the floor hugging his daughter, his back leaning against the furniture. He knew the real battle was just beginning, and this time he wouldn’t drop his weapon just because his enemy wasn’t in uniform. Sometimes what one forgets isn’t because it wasn’t important, but because it made him feel so guilty that he didn’t dare to name it.
And when that name reappears, no one can ignore it because it awakens a pain everyone thought they’d buried in their memories. The Rosary Town Market only sets up once a month for a single day, but that’s when the whole town seems to wake up and truly live. Children cling to their mothers’ hands, begging for candy. Older women wave terry towels in the middle of the aisle. Fish vendors shout prices from early morning until noon.
And the sound of bicycle bells mingles with the hurried footsteps of housewives trying to prepare lunch on time. In the midst of this scene, Rodrigo Álvarez stood as silent as a solitary tree in the middle of the plaza. He wandered aimlessly among the stalls, not looking for anything in particular, but as if trying to find a nameless piece of his memory. Amidst the street cries, the clinking of aluminum pots, and the scent of cinnamon wafting from a bakery hidden behind some mint pots.
Camila, his daughter, had stayed home shucking corn on the cob with Doña Teresa, a meticulous task that, she said, was key to ensuring the tamale dough didn’t turn out lumpy. Rodrigo knew the girl was safe. Still, deep inside, a feeling lingered, as if something were slipping before his eyes without him being able to name it. When he turned to change direction, his gaze met a dark plum-colored rebozo being gently shaken by an older woman.
The gesture was unremarkable, but her trembling hands and aloof gaze made his heart stop for a moment. He stood still. Then he began walking toward her slowly but determinedly. The woman, noticing his gaze, tried to turn around awkwardly, but it was too late. Rodrigo followed her step by step, without hiding his intentions. Doña Teresa, the woman, stopped, bowed her head slightly, as if she had heard a voice from an ancient dream.
She didn’t turn around immediately, but her arm, the one holding the basket handle, tensed like a reflex in the face of a memory she didn’t want to touch. Rodrigo respected the distance without rushing it, letting the air between them be enough space for the truth to emerge from the silence. At that moment, he noticed that the contours of her eyes had deepened, as if each story hidden in her soul had left a wrinkle on her skin. Forgive me if I’m putting you on the spot, but if you know anything about Patricia and the children who lived with her, I need to know.
Doña Teresa turned around, her eyes dry. “Are you sure you want to hear this?” Rodrigo didn’t answer. He opened the door of an old pickup truck borrowed from a friend from the garage and invited the woman to get in. They sat in that small space, permeated with the smell of old leather and the wind that came in through the cracks in the window. Doña Teresa placed her basket on the floor and caressed her knees as if preparing to give testimony. “When I was working at Patricia’s house,” she began, Camila wasn’t there yet, but there was another girl, a girl named Mariana.
The name struck Rodrigo like an internal fissure, still not entirely clear, but powerful enough to announce that something was about to explode from the depths of the silence. Mariana wasn’t Patricia’s daughter; she was the daughter of his cousin, a woman with terminal cancer. Before she died, he confided in his daughter, believing Patricia to be a stable person, with values, a good Christian. Rodrigo said nothing. Doña Teresa looked through the glass, where the bustle of the market sounded like a distant sea that never stopped breaking.
At first, everything seemed fine. Patricia hugged her, took her to Mass, braided her hair every morning. I came to think she was the ideal woman, but those days were short-lived, short-lived, like an interrupted prayer. She stopped. Her gaze shifted to the car dashboard. The sunlight coming through the glass drew a bright line on her cheek. The first night I heard crying was while I was cleaning the kitchen. It wasn’t clear, just a muffled snort from the bathroom.
I knocked on the door, but no one answered. The next day, Mariana was wearing long sleeves in the middle of summer. She opened her bag and took out a piece of paper folded in four, the edges worn by time. One day, Mariana gave me this. She asked me to keep it if I wanted her. She didn’t say anything else. Rodrigo unfolded it. The handwriting was slanted, pencil-like. Some words were blurred. If anyone ever reads this, I want them to know I didn’t do anything wrong. I just want to be hugged like other children.
Rodrigo folded the paper sullenly, as if afraid of tearing another piece of that memory. He put it in the inside pocket of his jacket. What happened to Mariana after that? Doña Teresa shook her head. Patricia said the girl had a fever and that she sent her to a hospital in Durango. No one saw her again. They said she’d been transferred to another place. And then, silence. I asked and was dismissed. She told me I had no right to interfere in family matters.
Rodrigo didn’t ask any more questions. Doña Teresa lowered her gaze. She should have done something, but I remained silent like so many others. She opened the door without waiting for a word. Before leaving, she whispered, “Camila, she’s lucky to have you. Don’t let her become another name people prefer to forget.” The house was silent when Rodrigo returned. Camila was sleeping with her head on the table. In her arms, the old teddy bear with one eye missing, its ear worn out, and covered in dust was still her treasure.
Rodrigo approached carefully, arranged the blanket around her shoulders, and then stood by the window. The afternoon light filtered through the curtain. Outside, an unfamiliar car was parked next to the gate. Patricia was talking to a man at the wheel. He didn’t get out of the car, just bowed his head as he smoked. The smoke swirled thickly. Patricia pointed at the house and looked toward the window where Rodrigo was standing.
Rodrigo didn’t hide; he stood up, his gaze fixed. Patricia saw him for a moment, then looked away and turned away. He returned to his sleeping daughter, adjusted the blanket, and stayed there. In his mind, the name Mariana echoed once more. No one mentioned her, no one looked for her, no one mourned her. But from today on, Mariana will no longer be a forgotten name. On the old wooden table marked by scratches that looked like a time map, Rodrigo carefully placed the letter under the flickering light of the oil lamp.
The trembling blue ink had run on the first letters, as if the hand that wrote it couldn’t stop its trembling. He didn’t know who the author was until he reached the end. There was no signature, only a blank space, but inside him that name resonated clearly. Mariana Camila slept soundly. Her steady breathing emerged from the small wooden bed in the corner of the room. The glow of the fire in the stove filtered through the curtain, reflecting reddish and orange tones on Rodrigo’s face like the last rays of sunset.
He read slowly, sentence by sentence. If anyone is still listening, I just want you to believe me. I once dropped a plate, and she made me stand in the yard until the rooster crowed without any clothes on. I’m sorry for dirtying the floor. I’m sorry for crying so loudly. I’m sorry for existing without anyone loving me. I don’t dare write my name, but if the person receiving this is a good person, please believe me. Rodrigo clutched the sheet of paper in his hands. Not out of anger.
but as if trying to cling to something that was fading in the war. He had seen such looks, without screams, only eyes speaking through a mouth silenced by pain. As he finished the last line, Rodrigo remained silent in the fading glow of the fire. His gaze was lost in the dark corner of the picture-free wooden wall. Finally, he stood up, put on his faded military jacket, and went out onto the porch. Outside, the wind descended from the hills, bringing with it the scent of earth and wild grass after the dampness.
He remained motionless for a long time, unable to imagine what lay ahead, unprepared for what lay behind. Only one thing silently shattered inside him. This has to end. We must break the cycle that everyone believes is normal. The elders of his village used to say that a tree doesn’t fall because of a strong wind, but because its roots were already rotten. Rodrigo didn’t want Camila to grow like a tree eaten away from the base. Upon returning to the room, he tucked his daughter in and sat on the edge of the bed, watching her barely moving eyelids.
Tomorrow we’re leaving. No one else has the right to scare you, I promise. The soft slide of the suitcase across the floor resonated in the empty house, making the wood vibrate like the strings of an over-strung violin. Camila stood by the table, her eyes fixed on the cloth bag where she was carefully stuffing her things. She said nothing, asked nothing, only showed a strange patience in her small hands as they delicately folded the already worn teddy bear, as if this moment had been planned long ago in her heart.
Rodrigo packed quickly. There weren’t many important things, but he still checked every old book, every piece of clothing, as if doing so would help him preserve the memories that hadn’t yet become dusty. Patricia appeared on the threshold just as the sun began to lean over the eaves. Her impeccable dress and sweet voice tried to hide the unease that any stranger wouldn’t notice. “What are you doing, Rodrigo?” She didn’t turn around, zipped the bag, and stood up. “We’re leaving.”
Patricia was still smiling, but the corner of her lips trembled slightly. Where to now? I think we should talk. Camila needs stability. He just looked at her, not with anger or resentment, but with a firmness that erased any attempt at insistence. The girl needs to live, not just survive. Patricia took a step closer, barely touching the ground as if afraid of breaking something sacred. You’re blaming me for things you didn’t see with your own eyes. Children are sensitive. You can’t believe everything they say.
Rodrigo interrupted her. “I don’t believe in words. I believe in wounds, in looks, in what a girl never dares to share.” She couldn’t answer. Under the yellow light coming through the curtain, her face for the first time showed a confusion she couldn’t hide even with makeup. Rodrigo slung the bag over his shoulder, bent down, and took Camila’s hand. The girl looked at him, then glanced over her shoulder at the woman who remained petrified.
She didn’t say goodbye, she didn’t say anything, she just squeezed her father’s hand tightly. The door opened, the wind blew in, and the two left the house that had once been their home without looking back. Patricia stood motionless in the doorway, like a misplaced porcelain statue. Her eyes flickered uncontrollably, trying to maintain a composure that was already slipping through her fingers. Her legs, unable to support her, slowly buckled, as if the entire house were collapsing on top of her without anyone noticing.
On the road out of town, Rodrigo’s truck moved slower than usual, not out of fear, but out of respect for the last stretch before starting over again. Camila leaned her head against the window, hugging her teddy bear with her lips pressed together as if holding back tears. Rodrigo didn’t pressure her to speak; he just placed his hand on hers, enough to let her know she was still there, resisting in her own way. In his shirt pocket was the letter, light as a dry leaf, but as heavy as a memory no one wants to relive.
It wasn’t just a letter from Mariana; it was the voice of many other children who had never been heard. As the truck turned onto the path at the foot of the hill, the evening light pierced the glass, painting a soft orange hue over the father and daughter’s hands, like a wound beginning to heal. Rodrigo thought that not everyone has the courage to start over, but a father has no choice, and this time he didn’t say those words to console, but to reaffirm them within himself.
And this time, her words wouldn’t be carried away by the wind. A forest bird sang from somewhere among the sun-dried branches. A sound that echoed like a memory floating from far away, silent and persistent. The wind gently caressed the rusty tin roof, causing a few dry leaves to fall onto the porch of the humble cabin. Amidst that natural silence, something else began to reveal itself. Peace, not because nothing had happened there, but because everything that should have hurt had already hurt.
And now all that remained was to learn to breathe again. Rodrigo Álvarez stood on the front step, his gaze fixed on the rays of sunlight filtering through the folds of the mountains. The earth beneath his feet still smelled of burnt grass from the previous season, mixed with the scent of pine and rotten wood. That house had belonged to his parents, the place where he grew up amid harsh winters and dinners by the light of an oil lamp.
As a young man, he thought he’d never return because his memories there were linked to poverty and responsibility. But now, with his old backpack on his shoulder and a sleeping child inside the house, he knew he had done the right thing by returning. From the corner of the yard, the faint creak of a rope against a metal hook was heard, causing Rodrigo to instinctively turn around. The old swing, worn by the years, hung silently under the shade of the tamarind tree.
It was still the same as when her mother built it with unvarnished pine planks. The wood had already lost its color, and the rough knots were now covered with a thin layer of moss, like new skin over an old scar. It swayed gently, even though there was no wind, as if memories themselves decided to revive, silently touching the hearts of those who beheld them. Inside the house, Camila Álvarez squatted on the floor, dusting some old rugs.
Her face no longer showed fear, only calm concentration. She looked up and asked softly, “Dad, how long are we going to stay here?” Rodrigo sat down beside her, gently touching her shoulder, as long as it takes, until you feel like no one else is going to make you tremble when they hear your name. Camila didn’t respond; she just lowered her head and lightly rubbed her wrist. The bruises were almost gone, but the gesture of protecting herself was still ingrained in her body.
Rodrigo didn’t blame her. He knew there were wounds that time couldn’t erase; you just learned to live with them a little more gently. After lunch, Camila went out to the backyard with a small notebook in her hands. Rodrigo stayed in the kitchen, cleaning the old table. From the wooden shelf, he picked up the phone and dialed a number he knew by heart. The name of the recipient appeared on the screen: Commissioner Esteban Varela. “Well, it’s Rodrigo. I’m in the old cabin south of the mountain.”
That place you surely still remember. Are you both okay? The voice on the other end was deep and sincere, as if he too were looking toward those distant hills. Rodrigo spoke slowly, as if each word were carefully chosen. Last night, the girl slept soundly, without any disturbances. I didn’t hear her snorts either. The commissioner was silent for a few seconds, then said in a lower tone, as if suddenly understanding something important. I’m happy for you, but I know that what you need isn’t resolved with just one night’s rest.
Rodrigo took a deep breath. I received Mariana’s letter. Teresa delivered it to me in person. I have photos, documents, and testimony. But I didn’t call to accuse anyone. I called to confirm that this wouldn’t be silenced. On the other end, the rustle of papers could be heard. Evidence of the work in progress. Then the commissioner’s voice returned slowly but firmly. I’m trying to convene the town council. But Rodrigo, you know very well, if you want this to come to light, you have to take the lead.
No one’s going to say it for you. Rodrigo nodded, even though the other couldn’t see it. I’m running away. I only took my daughter to a place where fear has no voice. But now it’s time to go back to protect other children who might be experiencing what she went through. The call ended in a silent agreement. Rodrigo put down the phone, staring out the window overlooking the forest. He knew that in a few days nothing would be the same, but that was the price he had to pay.
Outside, Camila sat under the shade of the tamarind tree, stroking each petal of a wildflower with her fingers. She gently touched the back of a small wild cat that had just emerged from the bushes. The animal was startled and immediately fled. Camila laughed softly. It wasn’t a laugh, but it was enough to make Rodrigo stop. It had been a long time since he’d heard that sound come from his daughter. When the last rays of day began to stretch across the wooden floor, Camila gently pushed the door and entered.
She held a carefully folded piece of paper in her hands, its edges wrinkled from being handled many times. She walked toward Rodrigo unhurriedly, without hesitation, with a calmness that seemed strange. She handed him the letter, her gaze steady, as if she were ready for something bigger than any words. I’ve finished writing, but don’t open it. It’s a letter for Mom. I’m going to read it when we get back to town. Rodrigo took the letter without saying anything, just nodded. He knew that there are some things you don’t shout out, that the simple fact that Camila dared to write, to keep her emotions in an envelope, was braver than any apology spoken out loud.
The sky at dusk turned ash-colored. From the horizon, small lights flickered like tiny grains of hope. Rodrigo stood next to his daughter on the porch. He took her hand gently but decisively. We’re going back to the town of Rosary, but this time you won’t be afraid of anyone. Camila nodded without asking why. In her father’s gaze, she had already found enough reason to believe. In some corner of the town, there are still those who pretend the truth doesn’t exist.
But silence is not eternal. Just as winter cannot hold back flowers forever, sooner or later, the light will find its way back. And the two of them, father and daughter, were ready to ignite that light, not with anger, but with truth. The atmosphere inside St. Clare’s Church that day didn’t smell of the usual feast-day incense, but of old wood cracked by the sun, mixed with the dust people dragged in from the square.
Everything remained motionless, as if waiting for something unexpected, something not listed on the sermon schedule, nor planned by the parish. The stained-glass windows above reflected sunlight on the long pews, casting shadows like fragments of broken memories. The first to enter was not Father Lorenzo or the sacristan, but Commissioner Esteban Varela. He wore an old shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, dusty cowboy boots, and a gaze that no longer wandered aimlessly.
He didn’t carry a weapon, just a folder of documents under his arm. As he walked to the center of the altar, almost everyone fell instantly silent. There were no bells, no chanting, but his presence strained the air in the temple as if something were about to explode. Camila entered from the back. Her old canvas shoes made a soft, steady sound on the floor. She clutched a notebook tied with a silver ribbon. Rodrigo walked just behind, without uniform or insignia, just an ordinary priest with eyes marked by more sleepless nights than years of life.
Father Lorenzo emerged from the side aisle, his dark cassock trailing a faint whisper on the tiles. He smiled gently, but his gaze lingered on the commissioner, then on Camila, and finally on Rodrigo. “Mr. Varela,” the priest said, “this is not an official hour, nor is it the place to issue accusations.” The commissioner placed the folder on the wooden pulpit in the center of the sanctuary. “And it’s not Sunday either,” he replied, “but the people of the rosary are here.”
Today they haven’t come to listen to me or you, but to a little girl. And I’m here to make sure no one turns their backs on you again. Camila was called to the front. No one showed her the way or took her hand, but she didn’t seem nervous. She walked slowly, with firm steps, as if each one carried an unanswered question. Once at the altar, she didn’t look at the audience; she just opened her notebook and turned the pages to a carefully marked one in the corner.
Her voice was low, but it carried far. There were times when I was punished for asking why. I didn’t understand. I just needed someone to tell me I wasn’t bad, as they said. All eyes were on her. No one murmured, not even the restless children stirred. The light coming through the windows fell directly on her black hair, creating a soft halo like an invisible shield. She continued reading. One day I spilled milk on the rug. They made me sit in the yard until dark.
It was cold, but I didn’t dare knock. I was afraid they’d hit me more. I just sat there hoping my stepmother would forget about me. Rodrigo clenched his hands in silence. The commissioner bowed his head, and the entire church sank into a silence that needed no words. Camila looked up. I’m not here to accuse anyone, but I want you to know that there was a time when I said it hurt. No one asked where. No one asked why I flinched when someone touched my shoulder.
They just said, “Hang in there, you’ll get used to it.” Patricia stood at the back of the church. Her face was pale, her hands clutching her purse. Her curly hair, once carefully arranged, fell loose over her cheeks. She tried not to lower her head, but her gaze couldn’t hold. Camila showed the letter Mariana had sent from the San Rafael nursing home. She didn’t read it in full; she just opened it and pointed to a fragment written in blue ink. If anyone is still listening, please believe me. I wasn’t the first to be hurt, and I don’t want to be the last to be forgotten.
Then she took out the notebook that Doña Teresa had kept. Inside were notes handwritten by Patricia, describing methods of gentle discipline for teaching children to be silent. She didn’t explain anything, just placed the notebook next to the letter. I don’t have as much proof as the adults hope, but if what I say is true, then today is the time for the adults to listen. Camila stepped down from the altar. No one applauded, but something had changed in the air. Something silently broke and could no longer be reassembled.
An elderly woman in the front row, dressed in black with white lace, stood up with the help of her cane. She did so so slowly that it seemed she didn’t even expect it. Then another woman stood up, a young man, perhaps the delivery man from Patricia’s shop, sat up, and clutched his cap tightly in his hands. No one said anything, but that silence wasn’t evasion, it was acceptance. It was a wordless, sorry, a downcast look for having turned away.
Rodrigo bowed his head. Camila stood beside him, holding one of his fingers. The commissioner took a step up and addressed the community. I looked away too. I believed in well-curated images, but today I believe in a little girl. And if this town wants to continue calling itself a community of decent people, decency must begin with listening. From behind, Patricia took a step back as if she wanted to flee, but the commissioner turned to her. She won’t leave today.
No longer. She didn’t respond, but her legs trembled. Her heels barely skipped on the tiles, like a wordless confession. Father Lorenzo, motionless beside the altar, didn’t look at her. His posture remained upright, but his eyes had lost control. They were no longer those of a leader, but those of one who can no longer stand. The commissioner opened the church door wide and said nothing. The wind from the square blew in, bringing with it the distant song of birds and the scent of sunshine after the rain.
Camila came out first. The light made her squint, but this time it didn’t cover them. She stood there breathing deeply, as if it were the first time she’d ever been able to do so. Rodrigo followed her without taking her hand. There was no longer any need to guide her. Camila had come into the light on her own, and from the church roof, the sparrows, which always avoided the sound of the bells, now circled, as if to announce that something had truly changed in the heart of the Rosary people.
Boom, boom. Thunder rumbled in the distance, not startling anyone, but the atmosphere inside the church changed. The tension was no longer sharp like an arrow, but rather latent, like embers still smoldering beneath the ashes. No one said anything when Patricia was handcuffed. No one cried or applauded. All eyes turned to Camila, but she didn’t back down. The girl remained upright, her hands clutching the hem of her blouse, as if a gust of wind might knock her over, but in the end, she didn’t fall.
Commissioner Esteban Varela unfurled the officially sealed document. His gaze scanned the crowd before speaking in a clear and firm voice. The Pueblo del Rosario City Council has issued a provisional arrest warrant for Ms. Patricia Moya to facilitate the investigation into allegations of physical and emotional harm to minors. For a moment, it seemed as if the murmur would erupt, but no one dared to speak. The only sounds were the heavy footsteps of the people advancing toward the commissioner and the metallic click of handcuffs echoing among the worn wooden benches.
Patricia didn’t resist, didn’t scream. Her face was pale, not from guilt, but from something that had never happened to her before. Losing control. The only person who stepped forward was Father Lorenzo Aguilar. He descended from the pulpit like a dethroned king. His voice tried to maintain its usual solemn tone. We are losing what is sacred by placing a child who does not yet distinguish right from wrong as judge. Rodrigo, you are not protecting your daughter; you are betraying the Almighty.
Rodrigo didn’t respond, but Doña Teresa Ramírez, who was standing at the back, moved forward with a firm step. She didn’t look at the priest, only at Camila. Her voice, slow and rough with age, said, “He betrays God who knows the truth and still remains silent.” Father Aguilar remained motionless. His gaze trembled as if searching for a familiar face to restore his crumbling faith. Some women lowered their heads in silence. Several men avoided eye contact. The air became thick, not with anger, but with quiet shame.
No one had the courage to justify what had been hidden behind closed doors. Camila kept her gaze fixed. Her eyes followed Patricia’s steps as she was escorted out. She said nothing, didn’t frown, didn’t shed tears, just bowed her head slightly, a slow gesture like a silent affirmation that she had seen it all. And yet she decided to stay, not out of resentment or pity, but with the serenity of someone who has been hurt and no longer cowers before anyone.
Patricia ducked her head as she descended the steps, one hand shielding herself from the sun, the other holding her handcuffed arm. For the first time, the town saw her tiny. Rodrigo walked up the aisle without papers, without notes. His voice wasn’t loud, but it sounded firm. I once thought it was enough to protect my daughter, but I was wrong. Because if each person only protects one child, others will continue to be hurt. Who saw and turned away? Who heard the crying and closed the door?
Everyone helped evil survive, and today I don’t want to remain silent. No one applauded, but there was no objection either. The silence stretched on, not as a burden, but as a tacit promise. Doña Rosa Valverde, the old woman who used to sell at the corner of the market, stood up slowly. She walked toward Camila without a word and handed her an old handkerchief with worn but clean lace. Camila took it with both hands. Then the school cook, the one who had once said, “There’s nothing unusual about Camila,” approached.
She didn’t lower her gaze, but her eyes were moist. She handed Rodrigo a notebook, the school lunch log. Clearly marked there were the days Camila didn’t eat lunch, not because of illness, but because she was forbidden to. I didn’t know everything, but I didn’t ask. Now I’m starting to ask. The midday light softened, as if the sky had also lowered its voice. The old tree in front of the temple released a few dry leaves. One fell on Camila’s shoulder, light as a silent period.
She looked up. Her eyes no longer held fear, but rather the hope of finding a peaceful corner within the world she had just emerged into. Commissioner Varela placed a hand on Rodrigo’s shoulder loosely, merely as an affirmation. We’ll continue investigating, but today you did the right thing. Rodrigo nodded. His face was no longer tense, but rather serene, like someone finally exhaling something they had been holding in for too long. He turned to Camila. The girl remained in the middle of the circle of gazes, no longer avoiding eyes, but searching in them for a true sign, a confirmation that she was no longer alone in this world.
Doña Teresa leaned against a column in the portico, her eyes brimming with tears. She clasped her hands together, not in prayer, but as an ancient gesture of those who have witnessed too many omissions. A gentle breeze crossed the interior, carrying a few wildflowers that drifted into the center of the nave. No one picked them; everyone looked at each other. No one knew what would come next, but something had been released. And the church bells, untouched, rang three times, as if they too knew that the truth, once spoken, cannot be locked away again.
The scent of dry grass still floated over the wooden threshold, where Camila used to sit with her knees hugged, listening to her father tell her the story of the clock without hands. It was Rodrigo’s way of explaining to her that some pains cannot be measured by time. They only ease when you know you’re in the right place with the right person. The wooden cabin at the foot of the hill now had a new look. Warm earth-colored paint covered the walls, and the windows opened and closed soundlessly thanks to the hinges Rodrigo forged by hand from old iron.
He spent almost two weeks building a pine shelf where Camila carefully arranged the children’s books she borrowed from the rural library. Every corner of the house bore their mark, from the scratches on the handles to the pencil marks on the walls, all wrapped in that air that can only be breathed where one truly belongs. Camila didn’t mention the village of Rosary Village again. Instead, she spent hours sitting at the wooden table by the window, drawing with crayons as if mending pieces of broken memories.
At first, the colors were blurry, the figures disordered, sometimes just patches of silence. But little by little, the drawings began to show trees, windows with light, and a brown-haired man sitting by a fireplace. Rodrigo watched her silently, without interrupting, without judging. He hung each drawing on the kitchen wall with a homemade glue made of flour and water, as if by doing so he could preserve the warmth of his daughter’s heart. Doña Teresa moved to a small house a few minutes’ walk away.
It used to be abandoned, but now smoke rose from the roof in the evenings, and the smell of buttered bread drifted all the way to the fence. Camila used to ride her bike over with a bouquet of wildflowers to exchange for a slice of bread and a hug. Teresa didn’t ask much, just placed her hand on Teresa’s shoulder with a look as warm as a blanket in late winter. Once, Rodrigo stood still, watching the two of them chat in the band’s garden.
Then she realized that there are things adults can’t quite put into words, but that children can name when someone takes the time to really listen. The new school was a simple, red-roofed building, not very big, but with enough light. Camila was assigned to the class of teacher Elena, a woman with tight curls and leather shoes worn from walking to work every day. On her first day, Camila didn’t say a word, but when her classmate, a boy with loose teeth named Nico, passed her a note that said, “I like orange cats,” she smiled for the first time in class.
That afternoon, when she returned home, she said to Rodrigo, “Dad, I wasn’t afraid anymore.” Rodrigo didn’t respond immediately. He tied the bundle of firewood next to the porch and then, stroking her hair, said, “You see? We all need a first day when we don’t want to run away.” That night, Camila drew a picture of a house. She glued on a piece of paper that said a house with a light at night. One sunny afternoon, the mailman arrived with a thin, pale blue envelope, the sheet curled from the damp.
He asked for her name, requested her signature, and explained that she was from a medical institution. Rodrigo silently accepted it and walked to the backyard, where the old gogo tree still bore the marks of the axe he himself had sharpened years before. He sat on the wooden bench and read Mariana’s handwritten letter. “I miss that little girl. I want to see her again so I don’t feel like I’m screaming into the void.” Rodrigo showed it to Camila.
She said nothing; she just put the letter in her sketchbook, where she kept everything she needed to remember. The next day, they took the car toward the town of Rosario, but they didn’t go downtown. They stopped in front of the old school where Mariana was waiting with a school manager. The girls looked at each other; they didn’t hug, they didn’t cry. Mariana just said in a low voice, “I dared to speak first. I’m no longer invisible.” Camila looked her in the eyes and nodded.
Thanks to you, I’m no longer afraid. The attendant asked permission to take Mariana back. Before getting in the car, she handed Camila a navy blue crayon. Rodrigo and his daughter stayed a while longer in the schoolyard. They walked slowly along the old cobblestones, where the footsteps of children playing had once echoed. Now they had become still memories. The sign over the entrance was faded, like a photograph left in the sun for too long.
Camila sat on the bottom step and with her finger drew a spiral in the tisa powder, not to record it, but like someone releasing a small sadness onto ancient flagstones. They didn’t say a word, but in that silence, a part of the past was placed back in its place, light as a ruffling breeze. That night, back at the cabin, Camila hung a new drawing. It was two girls standing side by side, behind a house with a light on.
Below, in shaky but firm handwriting, he had written: “Where Dad listens to me and everyone hears the truth. Perhaps in this life, there are no words that hurt more than the one Camila whispered to Rodrigo. Dad, it hurts. But beyond the physical pain is the unbearable weight of a child having to learn to keep quiet, to endure within the home, which should be their safest refuge. This story not only speaks of a brave father, but is a wake-up call for everyone.
Not all wounds are revealed with tears. Some are only revealed when someone chooses to look with their heart. Rodrigo was not a war hero, but his daughter’s hero. He rescued not with weapons, but with love, patience, and the faith that the truth can be hidden, but not buried forever. And like every cycle of life, those who hurt must face justice, and those who dare to defend the light deserve a reward. Sometimes, all it takes is inner peace or a child’s smile after so many trembling nights.
What do you think about this father’s journey? If it were you, you’d have the strength to believe in the truth, even in the face of an entire community. Have you seen or experienced anything similar in your area? I tell stories, but I always want to hear yours. If you’ve made it this far, tell me how you feel. Are you okay? Have you ever felt like Camila, forced to remain silent?
