My husband’s five-year-old daughter had barely eaten since moving in with us. “I’m sorry, Mom
I’m not hungry,” she would repeat to me night after night.
The patrol car arrived in under ten minutes. I held Lucía wrapped in a blanket, the warm light of the living room a sharp contrast to the fear in her eyes.
Officer Clara knelt beside her, speaking gently, and Lucía repeated what she’d told me: someone had taught her not to eat when she “misbehaved.” The implication was clear and heartbreaking.
We went to the hospital, where doctors confirmed her eating habits were learned, not natural. The child psychologist revealed something worse—Javier had seen her suffer and done nothing.
Back home, as I prepared a simple broth, Lucía hugged me.
“Can I eat this?” she asked.
“Always,” I whispered.
Recovery was slow, but with therapy and protective measures, Lucía finally felt safe. One afternoon she looked at me calmly:
“Mom… thank you for listening that day.”
“I always will.”
