Chapter 2 - The Woman Who Was Watching Us
“IF YOU REPORT ME, GABRIEL, I'LL MAKE SURE YOUR DAUGHTER NEVER LIVES WITH YOU AGAIN!”
Patricia's voice was remarkably calm.
No panic.
No apology.
Not even surprise that I'd discovered the documents.
I had finally answered her call after helping Sofia pack a small overnight bag.
I didn't want my daughter anywhere near the house if Patricia decided to return unexpectedly.
“Where are you?” Patricia demanded.
“At home.”
“I know that. Where's Sofia?”
“She's safe.”
A brief silence followed.
Then Patricia laughed.
“You've always been so dramatic about that girl.”
I felt my grip tighten around the phone.
“Don't call my daughter that girl.”
“Oh, please, Gabriel. You spend half your life driving trucks while I handle everything. Now you come home unexpectedly and suddenly decide you're Father of the Year?”
I wanted to argue.
Instead, I looked down at the photographs I'd taken.
“Why did you hide Elena's letters?”
Patricia didn't answer immediately.
Then she said:
“They were upsetting Sofia.”
“She never received them.”
“They reminded her of her dead mother. I was protecting her.”
“By telling her I threw them away?”
Another pause.
“Children misunderstand things.”
I swallowed my anger.
“What about the bruises?”
Her voice hardened.
“What bruises?”
“The ones you photographed.”
“I have no idea what you're talking about.”
“Then why are pictures of them in your drawer?”
Patricia exhaled slowly.
“Gabriel, think very carefully about what you're doing. You have an exhausting job. You're rarely home. You've been under a tremendous amount of stress.”
I stayed silent.
“People notice these things,” she continued. “Neighbors. Teachers. Family members.”
“What are you threatening me with?”
“I'm reminding you that people might have questions about what happens when you come home angry.”
My stomach twisted.
She was practically telling me how she intended to use those photographs.
“You know I didn't hurt Sofia.”
“I know what I can prove.”
Those six words told me more about my marriage than six years of living together ever had.
I ended the call.
Then I opened the contacts on my phone.
There was one person I hadn't spoken to properly in years.
Isabel Moreno.
Elena's closest friend.
Isabel was an attorney who had helped my first wife organize her affairs before her death.
She'd also been one of the few people who told me, gently but firmly, that I needed to spend less time working after Elena passed away.
At the time, I'd mistaken her concern for criticism.
Now, I desperately needed her help.
She answered on the fourth ring.
“Gabriel?”
“Isabel, I need to talk to you.”
Something in my voice made her stop.
“What happened?”
“It's Sofia.”
I told her about the laundry room.
The bruises.
The birthday party.
The hidden letters.
And the financial documents bearing signatures I hadn't written.
Isabel listened without interrupting.
When I finished, she spoke carefully.
“First, Sofia needs to be somewhere safe. Second, have her injuries examined by a doctor. Third, preserve everything you found, but don't post it online or confront Patricia in person.”
“I've already spoken to Patricia.”
“What did she say?”
I repeated her threat.
Isabel went quiet.
Then she asked:
“Did you save the messages?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Keep the original messages. Don't delete anything.”
I looked toward the living room.
Sofia was sitting on the couch, holding Elena's unopened birthday letters.
“Isabel, I think Patricia stole money from Sofia.”
“We'll investigate that. But right now, your daughter's safety comes first.”
She gave me the name of a physician who could document Sofia's injuries and help us reach the appropriate child-protection authorities.
Then she asked another question.
“Is there somewhere Sofia can stay with someone she trusts?”
I thought of our neighbor, Lucía Navarro.
Lucía was a retired seamstress who lived two houses away.
She'd known Sofia since she was little.
Whenever Elena became too sick to get out of bed, Lucía brought soup, folded laundry, and occasionally watched Sofia while I went to work.
I hadn't visited her nearly enough in recent years.
But she had never stopped asking about my daughter.
I called.
She answered immediately.
“Gabriel? Is everything all right?”
“No, Lucía. I need your help.”
Twenty minutes later, she opened her front door.
When she saw Sofia's exhausted face, her expression changed.
“Oh, sweetheart.”
Sofia didn't speak.
She simply stepped forward and hugged her.
Lucía held her for a long time.
Then she looked at me.
“Tell me what happened.”
I explained as much as I could.
Her eyes filled with tears.
“I knew something was wrong,” she whispered.
I stared at her.
“What do you mean?”
“Patricia stopped letting Sofia visit me. She said Sofia was becoming disrespectful and needed stricter rules.”
“Why didn't you tell me?”
“I tried.”
Lucía looked ashamed.
“I called twice. Patricia answered your phone both times. She said you were busy.”
My stomach sank.
There was a pattern.
Patricia hadn't just controlled Sofia.
She had controlled who could reach me.
That afternoon, I took Sofia to Dr. Camila Ruiz.
The doctor spoke gently, examined her injuries, and asked questions without rushing or pressuring her.
Sofia described how Bianca grabbed her arms during arguments.
She explained the punishments, missed meals, and endless chores.
Dr. Ruiz documented what she observed and told us she was concerned about Sofia's physical and emotional well-being.
She also helped us begin the formal process of reporting the suspected abuse.
On the drive back, Sofia stared out the window.
“Dad?”
“Yes, sweetheart?”
“Are you going to leave Patricia?”
I looked at her.
“I don't see how I could stay married to someone who treated you this way.”
Her eyes filled with tears.
“Even if she says I'm lying?”
I pulled into a quiet parking lot and turned off the engine.
“Sofia, I should have listened more carefully long before tonight. I'm not going to make that mistake again.”
She looked down.
“I kept trying to tell you.”
My chest tightened.
“I know.”
“No, Dad. I really tried.”
She pulled a crumpled piece of paper from her bag.
It was a note she'd written months earlier.
Dad, please come home. I don't feel safe here.
The bottom was torn.
“Patricia found it before I could give it to you.”
I took the paper carefully.
For years, I'd believed my daughter was simply growing more independent.
In reality, she'd been growing quieter because nobody was allowing her to speak.
That evening, Isabel called again.
She'd contacted Sofia's school to ask about the reports Patricia supposedly handled.
And what she'd discovered was deeply troubling.
“Gabriel, when was the last time you personally received a message from Sofia's school?”
I thought about it.
“Maybe a year ago.”
“There's a reason for that.”
“What reason?”
Isabel hesitated.
“Fourteen months ago, someone submitted a signed authorization removing you from Sofia's emergency contact list.”
I stared at the wall.
“That's impossible.”
“The school has a copy.”
“Whose signature is on it?”
Isabel's voice dropped.
“Yours, Gabriel.”
May you like
Then she added:
“And according to the school, that same document gave Patricia permission to make decisions about Sofia without contacting you.”
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