I set Mateo on my hip, kept one arm around Carolina, and took out my phone. My voice was steady when the dispatcher answered. I reported suspected child abuse, requested medical assistance, and gave my address. Then I called our family physician, who told me not to wait for a house call.
“Get her to Children’s Medical now,” he said. “And take photos before anything changes.”
So I did.
I photographed the kitchen. The dishes. The broken glass. The overflowing trash. The sheet. The marks on Carolina’s shoulders. The red raw skin beneath her arms. The cuts on her knuckles. The timestamp on my phone sat in the corner of every picture like a witness.
That was when Jimena came downstairs.
She was wearing a cream silk lounge set and carrying the kind of annoyed expression people usually reserve for small inconveniences—traffic, a delayed reservation, a loud television in the next room.
Not for a nine-year-old child hanging on by a thread.
She took one look at me, one look at Carolina, and rolled her eyes.
“Oh good, you’re home early,” she said. “Your daughter has been impossible all day.”
I have replayed that sentence more times than I can count.
