She had warm soup that night. No insults. No shouting. The women whispered behind closed doors. The nephew stayed away. I held her on my lap until she fell asleep against me, her body still tense even in dreams.
Then Damian came home.
I heard the motorcycle first. Then the door slamming. Then his voice, already heavy with alcohol.
“Where’s my dinner?”
He entered like he owned the air in the room. Red eyes. Cheap rage. The swagger of a man who is only powerful when he knows his victim cannot hit back.
He saw me sitting with Sofía and frowned immediately.
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“What are you doing sitting down? Have you forgotten your place already?”
He grabbed a glass and hurled it at the wall. It exploded beside us. Sofía woke up crying.
“Shut her up!”
I rose slowly.
“She’s a child,” I said. “Don’t you ever raise your voice at her like that again.”
He stepped toward me, offended by the tone before the words even reached him. Then he lifted his hand.
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