“Your daughter wasn’t hurt, Daniel… we just played a prank on her so she’d stop being such a crybaby.”
That was the first thing I heard when I came out of the bathroom carrying Sofía, her little arms wrapped tightly around my neck and her face buried in my shoulder as if the whole world was out to get her.
The party was at my parents’ house, in a quiet neighborhood in Querétaro. My nephew Mateo was turning six, and the patio was filled with blue balloons, plastic tables, soft banda music, and the smell of grilled meat. Everything seemed normal: my aunts and uncles pouring themselves sodas, my cousins talking about work, my mom handing out cake as if that afternoon were a perfect family postcard.
I had brought Sofía because I thought, foolishly, that she would be safe there.
Ever since her mom and I separated, I was careful about every place I took her. Sofía was four years old, shy, sensitive, one of those little girls who hides behind your leg when someone speaks loudly. My sister Claudia always said I was “making her weak.” My mom, as always, agreed.
That’s why, when I stopped seeing her in the yard, I felt a chill in my stomach.
