“What are you doing?”
“I’m taking her to the hospital.”
Renata blinked. Then she looked at Sofía with a coldness she had never shown me before.
“What did you say to her?”
My daughter clung to my leg.
“Renata, I saw her arms.”
She let out a dry laugh.
“Please, Juan. You’re exhausted. You just got off a terrible shift. Sofia threw a tantrum, I took her up to her room, and that was it. You know how she is. She always exaggerates.”
“Those bruises aren’t from a tantrum.”
“Now you’re going to teach me how to raise my daughter?” she retorted, raising her voice. “While you’re playing the hero in the ambulance, I’m here every day. I pay for this house with my work. I’m the one who faces the music. I’m the one who makes people admire us.”
“Admire us?” I said. “Or admire you?”
Her expression changed. The mask slipped.
“Sofia ruined a 120,000-peso campaign. Do you have any idea how much it costs to maintain this life? Do you have any idea of the pressure I’m under?”
“And that’s why you hurt her?”
Renata took a step toward Sofia.
“Come here.”
I stepped between us.
“Don’t touch her.”
For the first time, Renata looked at me like I was an enemy.
“If you walk out that door with her, I’m going live right now. I’m going to say you came home agitated, that you hadn’t slept, that you pushed me, and that you took my daughter without permission. I have thousands of women who believe me. Who are they going to believe? The perfect mother or the tired paramedic who’s hardly ever home?”
She pulled out her phone and opened Instagram.
I felt afraid. Not for myself. For Sofía. Because Renata knew how to use tears as a weapon. She knew how to turn any story into content.
Then Sofía, behind me, said something that froze the kitchen:
“Dad… there’s a video.”
Renata turned around abruptly.
“Shut up.”
I looked at my daughter.
“What video?”
Sofía was crying, but she spoke.
