“At the doctor’s.”
A silence.
Then, too quickly: “Why?”
You almost reply, “You know why,” but you stop yourself. The social worker’s advice still echoes in your head: don’t reveal everything at once, don’t argue in private, don’t go home to “talk about it,” don’t underestimate the reaction of someone who realizes they’re losing control.
“Sofia’s back is badly bruised,” you say. “She told me what happened.”
Silence.
Not a silence of surprise.
A calculated silence.
Then Mariana exhales. “Of course she exaggerated.”
Your vision narrows.
“She’s eight years old.”
“He spilled juice everywhere, Javier. I barely touched him. He slipped.”
There. The first version.
Not denial. Adaptation.
You can almost hear him searching for the best version of events, the one that will calm him down the fastest.
"I saw the blue."
"You're exaggerating."
"No," you say softly. "I finally see it in its true size."
He's moved.
His tone changes. Softer. Strategic. "Where are you? We're not going to settle this over the phone."
You think back to the social worker's face. The doctor's calm voice. The report is already prepared. The images are saved on the computer. The way your daughter withdrew her hand, her body having learned that hands meant pain before comfort.
"We won't see each other tonight," you say.
"Javier."
"And you won't see Sofia until I'm told it's safe."
The mask slips.
