I was six years old the first time I understood that fear could hide in the corners of a house.
It was just another afternoon, one of those when the sunlight shamelessly streamed through the windows, as if unaware of what was happening inside. My mother was in the kitchen, washing dishes with quick, mechanical movements. She didn’t talk much. And when she did, her sentences were short, her voice so low it sounded like she was apologizing for existing.
My father was on the couch. Always on the couch. With a beer in his hand and a scowl as if the whole world had offended him. That day, like so many others, all it took was a small sound—a glass I accidentally bumped into—for his gaze to fall on me like a sentence.
“What did you do, you stupid girl?” he spat the words with more hatred than volume.
My body tensed. I learned early on that I shouldn’t respond. That staying still was my only defense. My mother barely turned her head, but she said nothing. She never said anything.
I hid behind the table—not because I thought it would save me, but because it was the only place I could try to disappear. Or at least pretend.
That day, he didn’t hit me. But he did three days later. And many times after that. Sometimes it was a slap, sometimes just a look. There was always something that hurt.
And yet, that wasn’t the worst part.
The worst part was that no one asked. Everyone knew. And stayed silent.
My aunt would say my father “had a strong character,” and that I was a “difficult” child. At school, when I showed up with lifeless eyes, the teacher would just tell me I needed “more enthusiasm.” At that age, I already knew that pain didn’t show if you smiled hard enough.
That’s how I began living in two worlds:
The one outside, where I pretended.
And the one inside, where I survived.
Rosa and the Silent Sundays
By Raquel Ortiz
Aunt Rosa came over almost every Sunday.
She would show up in her worn-out coat, carrying a bag of warm pastries and the habit of not looking too closely.
“Hi, my little girl… How’s school?” she’d say without waiting for an answer, as if reciting a line from a well-rehearsed script.
She’d settle in the kitchen with mom, speaking in hushed tones, sipping bitter mate and smoking slowly, filling the air with the smell of ashes and words that meant nothing. I’d stay at the table, drawing. Or pretending to.
Sometimes Rosa glanced at me sideways, like she suspected something. But then she’d quickly lower her gaze.
“Your father… he’s complicated,” she would murmur, more to justify herself than to comfort me. “Just try not to contradict him.”
Once, I showed her a drawing: a house without doors or windows. A girl in the middle, her mouth crossed out.
She looked at it in silence, set it on the table, and kept talking with mom as if nothing had happened.
When I got distracted, she carefully crumpled the drawing and slipped it into her purse.
She never mentioned it again.
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That same Sunday, after Rosa left, I went out to the backyard under the excuse of hanging laundry.
Mom had asked me to hang the sheets. The afternoon sun hit my face, but the air still felt heavy, like Friday’s screams were still floating inside the house.
That’s when I felt it.
Daniel, the neighbor in the back, was watering his dead plants again. I always saw him like that: wearing a tank top, with a half-finished cigarette, and that look that didn’t know where to rest.
“Hi, Lucía,” he said without smiling, without moving from his spot.
I didn’t respond. I just looked down and hung the sheet, my fingers trembling slightly. I could feel his attention like an invisible rope tightening around my neck.
It wasn’t the first time it happened—but it was the first time he spoke.
I rushed back inside, forgetting a sock on the line.
From the window, I saw him again. Still there. Watching. As if he knew I was still looking at him from inside.
I didn’t say anything to mom.
What could I say?
If we didn’t even talk about what happened inside the house…
How were we going to talk about what happened outside?
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