At dinner, Sofia was told to serve everyone first. By the time she sat down, there was often nothing left but rice. Eventually Elvira told her it would be “more efficient” if she ate after the dishes were done. Some nights there was nothing left at all.
When I was on the road, she was kept up past midnight finishing chores and then expected to be up at six to make breakfast before school.
Bianca, who was fifteen, filmed her on her phone mopping floors and scrubbing toilets, and shared the videos in a group chat with captions like the maid. Some of the girls at Sofia’s school had seen them.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I asked. I tried to keep the hurt out of my voice. I didn’t completely manage.
“I tried,” she said quietly. “Once. You were in Querétaro. Tía Patricia took the phone out of my hand and told you I was being dramatic because I didn’t want to do homework. You said, ‘Listen to Patricia, mija. I’ll be home soon.’”
