My husband’s five-year-old daughter had barely eaten since moving in with us. “I’m sorry, Mom… I’m not hungry,” she would repeat to me night after night.

My husband’s five-year-old daughter had barely eaten since moving in with us. “I’m sorry, Mom… I’m not hungry,” she would repeat to me night after night. Her plate was always left untouched. My husband would just say, “She’ll get used to it.” But one night, while he was away on a business trip, she said to me, “Mom… I need to tell you something.” As soon as I heard her words, I called the police immediately.

When I married Javier and moved with him to Valencia, his five-year-old daughter, Lucía, came to live with us permanently. She was a shy girl with large, dark eyes that seemed to observe everything with a mixture of curiosity and caution. From the first day, I noticed something strange: at mealtimes, she never ate a thing.

I would make omelets, baked rice, lentils, croquettes—dishes that any child would normally eat with gusto. But she would simply move her fork, lower her gaze, and murmur:

“Sorry, Mommy… I’m not hungry.”

That word—Mommy—surprised me every time; it was sweet, but it carried a hidden weight. I smiled at her, tried not to pressure her, and made an effort to create a safe environment. But the situation remained the same. Her plate remained untouched night after night, and the only thing she managed to eat was a glass of milk in the morning.

I spoke with Javier on several occasions.vContinue reading…