Chapter 2: Diego Chose His Mother's Version
Diego stopped inside the living room as if waiting for someone else to decide what he had walked into. His gaze passed over the belt in my hand, the grocery bags tipped against the doorway, and Sofía pressed into the corner. It settled on Teresa.
She rubbed the hand I had pulled the belt from. The gesture was small and deliberate, an accusation offered without words. Diego crossed to her immediately. He examined her wrist, turning it gently beneath the light, though there was no mark that I could see.
He did not look at Sofía’s arm.
That told me more than an argument could have.
I stepped between Teresa and my daughter. I folded the belt once and held it behind my thigh, beyond Teresa’s reach. Up close, I could see reddish marking along the worn leather near the buckle. The color was uneven, caught in the creases. I did not wipe it away.
Sofía moved against my side and gripped the back of my cream blouse. Her breath came in short pulls. The red line on her arm had begun to rise above the skin. I crouched without letting go of the belt and turned her gently toward the window. Daylight fell across the mark, making its edges impossible to dismiss.
Behind me, Diego guided Teresa toward the couch.
It was the kind of care he should have given his daughter.
The birthday cake waited on the table with six candles still standing upright in the frosting. One had tilted slightly from the heat in the room. Purple balloons bumped against one another near the ceiling, their ribbons dangling over empty paper plates. The whole celebration seemed paused around us, as if it still expected someone to fix it.
Mateo stood beside the table holding Sofía’s doll against his chest. The doll’s name was Diego. Sofía had chosen it herself, before any of this, when the name could still belong to something she loved without fear.
Her eyes found the doll. Her fingers tightened in my blouse, but she did not leave me to take it back. Mateo lowered his gaze and kept holding it.
Diego finally glanced toward us. His attention stopped on my closed hand around the belt, not on Sofía’s injury. Then he looked back at Teresa. She sat rigidly on the couch, her expression wounded and offended, while he remained beside her like a guard.
I understood the arrangement then. Teresa’s grievance was the emergency. Sofía’s pain was an inconvenience.
I took out my phone. Teresa shifted forward at once, but I straightened and moved the belt farther behind me. Diego watched me with the same tight expression he used when he wanted me to doubt whether I was making too much of something.
I photographed Sofía’s arm first.
My hand shook, so I braced my wrist against my knee and took another picture. The second image caught the full mark and part of her purple sleeve, fixing the injury to the dress she had worn for her sixth birthday. I took a third with the cake and balloons visible behind her.
Then I laid the belt on top of one of the grocery bags, careful not to touch the marked section. I photographed both sides, the buckle, and the red caught in the leather. When I finished, I wrapped the belt inside the bag and twisted the handles together.
No one helped me. No one stopped Mateo from keeping the doll.
Sofía leaned into my hip while I stood. I put one arm around her shoulders and kept the grocery bag with the belt in my other hand. Teresa was no longer close enough to reach either of them.
Diego moved nearer to his mother instead of crossing the few feet to Sofía. His choice was quiet, but it was complete.
The cake remained uncut. The candles remained unlit. Above us, the purple balloons drifted in place while Mateo held the gift and Teresa held Diego’s attention.
I backed toward the hallway with Sofía beside me. The living room had become a boundary I could defend for the moment, not a home I could trust. Diego watched us go, making no move to follow.
I kept the belt.
May you like
I kept the photographs.
And I kept myself between Sofía and the family that had already decided whose hurt mattered.
