When I married Javier and moved from my home country to Spain, I knew blending a family would come with challenges, but I never imagined something like this. Lucía had come to live with us permanently after a long custody process, and from the moment she arrived, she seemed smaller than her photographs suggested, lighter somehow, as if she might drift away if not anchored. Her dark eyes missed nothing. She noticed where I put my keys, how Javier liked his coffee, which floorboard creaked at night. She was observant in the way children become when they’ve learned that paying attention keeps them safe. I tried to build routines for her: bedtime stories, walks to the park, soft music in the evenings. At meals, I cooked familiar Spanish dishes and asked neighbors for advice on what children usually loved. Omelets with potatoes, lentils simmered slowly, croquettes crisp on the outside and soft inside. Any other child would have devoured them. Lucía didn’t even lift her fork. The word “Mommy” slipped from her lips naturally when she spoke to me, and though it filled me with tenderness, it also scared me. It felt like a lifeline she was throwing out, not a habit. When I voiced my concern to Javier more firmly, he grew defensive. He said her biological mother had been strict, that Lucía had learned strange habits there, that time would fix everything. But something in his eyes told me he was closing a door he didn’t want to open. I let it rest, not because I was convinced, but because I didn’t yet understand how urgent the truth was.
