“Yes, sir. Daycare assistant. Two years in a primary school.”
“You’ll live here. One day off weekly.”
“Yes, sir.”
Finally, he glanced at her. His eyes were sharp, tired, hollow.
“My daughter’s name is Elena. She’s nine. Difficult. Five nannies in two years. If you can’t manage, say it now.”
Before Sofía could answer, a girl appeared at the door.
Elena Aguilar Cortés. Pale dress. Tangled blond hair. Eyes too old for her age.
“You’re the new one?” she asked.
“Yes. I’m Sofía.”
“You’ll leave too. They always do. When he shouts. Or when Marta makes them cry.”
That night, a scream shattered the silence. Sofía ran toward it.
Elena’s door was locked—from the outside.
Inside, the girl was shaking in the closet.
“Marta did this,” Elena whispered. “But Dad never believes me.”
Marta Valdés arrived the next morning—perfect smile, silk robe, eyes empty. She skipped Elena’s breakfast as punishment.
Sofía spoke up. Calmly.
Marta smiled. “Stay in your place.”
From then on, Sofía watched everything.
When Mateo was home, Marta was loving. Online photos. Sweet gestures.
When he left, she became cruel. Locked rooms. Torn drawings of Elena’s late mother. Words whispered only to hurt.
Sofía recorded it all.