Since Emma’s mother had died three years earlier in a highway accident outside San Marcos, the house had never truly recovered. Robert tried to fill the silence with structure, work, and eventually, a new fiancée. But grief lingered in quiet corners, in unopened photo albums, in a child who stopped laughing too loudly.
That morning, Emma came downstairs wearing pajamas too thin for the cool air. Her eyes were red and swollen, as if she hadn’t slept. She ran straight to María and buried her face against her apron.
“Please,” she whispered, voice trembling. “Don’t let today happen.”
María crouched, brushing the girl’s hair back gently. “What’s wrong, sweetheart?”
“She’s different when Dad isn’t looking,” Emma murmured. “She scares me. And she said you won’t be here much longer.”
María felt her chest tighten. She had sensed the tension, the sharp looks, the clipped orders—but hearing it from the child made it real. She didn’t promise miracles. She only said, “I’m here. I won’t leave you alone today.”