My daughter was giving me warnings.
“Sofia, I love you. Whatever happened, you can tell me.”
Her lower lip trembled.
“I don’t want you to get angry.”
“I’m already worried. I won’t be angry with you.”
She slowly pushed her sleeves toward her elbows.
I saw bruises along both forearms.
Some were yellow and fading. Others were darker, almost purple. There were thin scratches near her wrists and a mark on her upper arm that looked as though someone had grabbed her hard enough to leave fingerprints.
For several seconds, I couldn’t speak.
I wanted to shout Patricia’s name.
I wanted to drive straight to Cancún, find her wherever she was staying, and demand an explanation in front of everyone.
But Sofia was watching me.
She looked as if she expected me to explode.
So I took a breath.
“Did someone do this to you?”
She stared at the floor.
