The police arrived quietly, respectfully, treating Lucía not as a case but as a child who had been carrying something far too heavy. One officer introduced herself softly and asked Lucía if she could sit beside her. I watched with a mix of gratitude and fear as Lucía nodded, her grip tightening around my sleeve. She repeated her story again, this time with more detail, still without anger or tears. Hearing it confirmed what my instincts had been screaming. This wasn’t a phase. It was conditioning. The officers explained that Lucía needed medical evaluation and suggested we go to the hospital. At La Fe Hospital, the pediatric staff examined her with great care. The doctor explained that while she wasn’t in immediate danger, her body showed signs of long-term restriction, and more importantly, her relationship with food had been deeply distorted by experience. Social services were contacted. A child psychologist spoke with Lucía for hours, using toys and drawings to let her speak safely. I sat outside the room, replaying every meal, every apology she had ever whispered. When the psychologist finally spoke to me, her expression was grave. Lucía had identified her biological mother as the source of the punishment, but she had also mentioned Javier—how he knew something was wrong, how he sometimes tried to help quietly, but ultimately stepped back. That knowledge landed harder than anything else. It wasn’t just about cruelty. It was about silence.
