I had to get up and stand at the window for a minute.
Ana had died when Sofia was eleven. Cancer, fast and cruel. For two years it had just been the two of us, and I’d been terrified of failing her. When I met Patricia, she seemed warm and capable. She brought food when Sofia was sick. She asked about Ana with what looked like real tenderness. I married her believing I was giving my daughter a mother figure and a fuller home.
I’d also gone back to taking long routes, because the business needed me and because I believed someone was finally watching over Sofia while I was gone.
Someone had been watching her, all right.
That afternoon I took Sofia to our family doctor, Dr. Ibarra, who had known her since she was a baby. I explained only that I needed a full checkup and that I wanted everything documented. She examined the bruises and the damage to Sofia’s hands, noted that Sofia was underweight for her height, and asked me to step outside so she could talk with my daughter alone. When she came out, her face was grave.
