PART 2
On Tuesday morning, Principal Patricia Salgado was waiting for Diego in her office.
The blinds were half-closed. On the desk lay a blue folder, an untouched cup of coffee, and the hardened face of a woman who was no longer trying to feign kindness.
“I received a call from Sofía’s mother,” she said. “She’s very upset.”
“She should be,” Diego replied. “Her daughter needs help.”
Patricia pressed her lips together.
“The woman says Sofía is dramatic. That she scratches herself a lot, that she might have irritation, and that you put serious ideas into a child’s head.”
Diego felt the blood rush to his face.
“Did they take her to the doctor?”
The principal lowered her gaze for barely a second.
It was enough.
“We’re not the ones to interfere in family matters,” she said afterward. “Much less to make accusations without proof.”
“I didn’t make an accusation. I reported a warning sign.”
“This school can’t be embroiled in a scandal,” Patricia replied, her voice now cold. “We have a supervisory meeting this week. There are outstanding donations. Some parents are looking for any excuse to talk.”
Diego leaned forward.
“A little girl said it hurt to sit down. She drew a chair circled in red. Her stepfather threatened me. And you’re thinking about donations?”
Patricia stood up.
“Think carefully about what you’re doing, Mr. Ramirez.”
Sofia arrived late that day. Her hair, which she almost always wore in two braids, was disheveled. Her backpack hung from one shoulder. She walked straight to her desk, but didn’t sit down.
Diego pulled out the chair without saying a word.
“You can work standing up,” he told her.
Sofia looked at him with a mixture of fear and gratitude.
During the reading, Diego told a story about a little bird seeking shelter during a storm. When he finished, he asked:
“What did the little bird need to save itself?”
The children raised their hands.
“A tree.”
“Its mother.”
“Wings.”
From the back of the room, Sofía murmured:
“For someone to believe it.”
No one spoke.
Diego felt a lump in his throat.
“Yes,” he said slowly. “We all need that.”
At recess, he called the municipal DIF (Family Services) and filed a formal report. This time he didn’t sugarcoat anything. He spoke of the pain, the drawing, the stepfather, the pressure from the principal, the mother who said it was all an exaggeration.
The woman on the phone listened calmly.
“Are you a public servant or a teacher?”
“A teacher.”
“Then you did the right thing. Don’t forget to document everything.”
When he hung up, Diego breathed for the first time in two days.
But the storm began that very afternoon.
He was called back to the principal’s office. This time, a school supervisor, Arturo Méndez, was there, wearing a gray suit and carrying a folder full of papers.
“We’re concerned about your behavior,” the man said. “You’re creating a hostile environment with a family in the community.”
“I’m more concerned about what’s happening to the girl.”
Arturo looked at him as if he were a problem that needed to be solved.
“There are internal protocols.”
“And there are laws, too.”
Patricia gently tapped her hand on the table.
“Teacher, if this gets out, the parents are going to panic. The press could destroy us.”
Diego let out a dry laugh.
“Then perhaps the question should be why a school was more afraid of the press than of a little girl’s suffering.”
The supervisor stood up.
“Be careful.”
Diego stood up too.
“That’s what I’m doing. Taking care of Sofía.”
That night, he received a call from an unknown number.
“Teacher Diego?” a woman’s voice asked, its tone breaking.
“Yes.”
“This is Laura, Sofia’s mother.”
Diego sat up straight.
“Mrs. Hernandez…”
“Why are you doing this to us?” she cried. “My husband is furious. They came to the house. They asked questions. You don’t know what he’s like when he’s angry.”
Diego froze.
“Laura, are you and Sofia safe?”
There was silence on the other end.
Then a man’s voice shouted something from far away.
Laura gasped.
“I didn’t know,” she whispered.
The call ended.
Diego immediately called the DIF (Family Services) and reported what had happened.
The next day, Sofia didn’t go to school.
The principal announced over the loudspeaker that everyone should focus on their work, as if an empty chair at the back of the classroom didn’t scream louder than any announcement.
At noon, the secretary, Doña Carmen, called Diego over with a discreet gesture.
“Mom said she was sick,” she murmured.
“With what?”
Doña Carmen glanced at the closed principal’s office door. Then she slipped a small piece of paper onto the counter.
It was an address.
“I didn’t give her anything,” she said.
“No,” Diego replied. “You didn’t give me anything.”
After school, he drove past the building. He didn’t get out. He didn’t knock. He just watched from the corner.
Then he saw his stepfather next to the white SUV, talking on the phone.
“That teacher doesn’t understand,” the man said, unaware that Diego could hear him. “But I know how to shut up busybodies.”
Diego gripped the steering wheel.
At that moment, a curtain on the second floor moved.
Sofía appeared behind the glass.
Her face was pale. Seeing him, he opened
