And I made a promise to myself. I would find out everything before anyone knew I was looking.
Part Two: What My Daughter Had Been Carrying
I let Sofia sleep in the next morning. When she came downstairs at nine, she looked panicked.
“I didn’t do the floors.”
“The floors can wait. Sit down.”
I’d made eggs, beans, and tortillas, the breakfast her mother used to make on weekends. I put a full plate in front of her. She stared at it.
“Is this for me?”
That one question told me more than any bruise.
It took most of the morning, and a lot of silences, but she told me.
It had started small, a few months after I married Patricia. Little comments about how Sofia was spoiled. Chores that grew longer every week. Then, once Elvira moved in last year “to help around the house,” things got worse.
