“That’s it,” I said, dropping the pieces to the floor. “From today on, there are rules here. And the first one is that no one ever lays a hand on that girl again.”
That night, Sofia ate hot soup without anyone insulting her. Doña Ofelia and Brenda whispered behind closed doors. The nephew never came near again. I sat Sofia on my lap and let her fall asleep against my chest.
Then Damian arrived.
I heard the motorcycle first, then the door slam, then his voice full of alcohol.
Where’s my dinner?
He staggered in, his eyes bloodshot, with the cheap rage of a coward who’s only brave around women and children. He looked at Sofia, then at me.
—What are you doing sitting down? Have you already forgotten your place?
He grabbed a glass and smashed it against the wall. Sofia woke up crying.
“Shut her up!” he roared.
I stood up with a calmness that disconcerted him.
“She’s a child,” I told him. “Don’t you ever yell at her like that again.”
He raised his hand to hit me.
I caught her in mid-air.
I saw in his eyes the exact moment he understood that something wasn’t going as he expected.
“Let me go,” he muttered.
—No.
I twisted his wrist. There was a sharp click. He fell to his knees, screaming. I dragged him to the bathroom, turned on the tap, and forced his face into the water.
“Is it cold?” I whispered, as she splashed around trying to get free. “That’s how my sister felt when you locked her up in here.”
I finally let him go. He fell coughing, soaked, humiliated, with fear written all over his face.
I didn’t sleep that night. And I wasn’t wrong.
At midnight, I heard footsteps. Damian, Brenda, and Doña Ofelia crept in. They had rope, duct tape, and a towel. They planned to tie me up and call the hospital to “put the crazy woman back in her cage.”
I waited until they were close enough.
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