When Lucía came downstairs to the living room, I followed her at a distance. She sat on the sofa, hugging her knees, her eyes red and her face pale. She looked at herself in the hallway mirror as if searching for the little girl she once was.
"I can't anymore," she whispered.
Then I left.
—Lucía.
She jumped up as if she had caught her stealing.
-Dad…
I didn't yell at him. I couldn't. My throat was closed up.
—Why aren't you in school?
Her lips trembled.
—Yes, I went… but I left.
—Since when have you been doing that?
He didn't answer.
I sat down opposite her, leaving space between us.
—The neighbor heard your screams. Me too. Don't tell me everything's normal anymore.
Lucia clenched her hands until her knuckles turned white.
—They're bothering me at school.
The word "bothering" fell short of describing what she began to recount.
First they hid her backpack. Then they scribbled on her notebooks. After that, notes appeared on her desk: “You’re disgusting,” “Nobody wants you here,” “Get out.” Once she found tacks inside her sneakers. Another time, they edited a photo of her and shared it in high school WhatsApp groups. Nobody defended her. Some laughed. Others just pretended not to see.
"Who?" I asked.
Lucia swallowed.
—Nayeli Ríos.
The surname hit me like a stone, but I still didn't want to understand.
Verónica arrived half an hour later. When she saw us, she knew something serious had happened. The three of us sat down in the living room. Lucía spoke more. She said that Nayeli wasn't acting alone, but everyone obeyed her because her mother was a teacher at the school: Professor Alma Ríos.
—I went with her —Lucía said—. I told her everything.
"And what did he do?" Veronica asked.
Lucia let out a dry laugh.
"She told me her daughter would never do that. That I probably just wanted attention."
Veronica covered her mouth. I felt an old rage rising in my chest.
—Then Nayeli found out that I went to accuse her—Lucía continued—. And everything got worse.
They made up a story that Lucía was harassing a classmate. They created a fake profile in her name. In the hallways, they called her "crazy," "intense," "a liar." The nurse already knew her because she'd come in with stomach aches, dizziness, and crying fits. And me, meanwhile, was carrying bags of cement, convinced that my house was still in order.
"Why didn't you tell us?" Veronica asked, crying.
Lucía looked at her with a sadness that disarmed us.
—Because you always say that one has to endure. And you, Dad… you were never there.
There was no possible defense.
Then I asked what had been burning inside me for minutes:
—Why is Nayeli doing this to you?
Lucia lowered her gaze.
—Because she says you ruined her mother's life.
Veronica turned towards me.
—Did you know that woman?
I was frozen.
Yes. I met Alma Ríos many years before I got married. It was a brief, poorly concluded relationship, the kind you bury believing that time erases what cowardice left behind. I left without a proper explanation, without looking back. I never imagined that that story could return, transformed into poison for my daughter.
—Nayeli told me that her mother cried because of you —Lucía said—. That now it was my turn to pay.
Veronica stood up, trembling.
—Did an adult allow this out of revenge?
I didn't know what to say. Guilt was suffocating me.
The next day, the three of us went to school. The principal greeted us with a fake smile. Professor Alma Ríos was there, impeccably dressed, calm, as if her position gave her authority over the truth.
"We need to handle this calmly," said the director.
"The calm is over," I replied.
I laid out screenshots, messages, dates, nursing reports, and Lucia's absences on the table. Alma barely glanced at the papers.
"Teenagers exaggerate," he said.
—Repeat it while looking her in the eyes—I said, pointing at Lucia.
He couldn't.
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