I sat on the edge of Sofia’s bed, watching her breathe slowly, as if even in her sleep her body couldn’t quite let go. Her small hand still clutched the stuffed bunny, as if it were the only thing keeping her anchored to something safe.
Alejandro’s words kept echoing in my head.
“It’s okay… you’re strong.”
For hours, I was torn between guilt and relief.
Guilt… for having doubted.
Relief… for not having found something worse.
But deep down, she knew that none of those emotions were enough.
Because there was something that still didn’t fit.
Why would a five-year-old girl, even if she was being bullied at school, react like that?
Why such profound silence?
Why the way they remained motionless, as if any movement could make things worse?
The next morning, I decided not to go to work.
It was the first time in months that he had been absent.
I silently prepared breakfast while Sofia sat at the table, slowly stirring her milk with her spoon.
Alejandro left the room, dressed for work, with his usual calm demeanor.
“I’m not going to the store today,” I said without looking at him.
He nodded, suspecting nothing.
“That’s fine. That way you can rest a little.”
But I didn’t want to rest.
I wanted to understand.
When Alejandro left the house, the sound of the door closing was louder than usual.
I waited a few seconds.
Then I approached Sofia.
“We’re not going to school today,” I said gently.
She looked up, surprised.
“Really?”
I nodded.
“Let’s do something different.”
I didn’t tell him what.
Because even I wasn’t entirely sure.
All I knew was that I needed to get her out of that environment.
I asked her to change and, an hour later, we were sitting in a small children’s office in downtown Guadalajara.
The psychologist’s name was Laura.
She had a calm voice, a warm smile, and a way of speaking that made even me feel lighter.
Sofia didn’t speak at first.
