“Raise your son better,” I murmured. “There’s still time before he grows into the men in this house.”
Doña Ofelia came at me with the handle of a feather duster, striking my shoulder once, twice, three times.
I didn’t flinch.
I ripped it out of her hand and snapped it clean in half. The sound alone made them step back.
“Listen carefully,” I said, dropping the broken pieces to the floor. “From this moment on, no one in this house touches that child again.”
That was the first quiet meal Sofía had probably eaten in months.
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