Chapter 4 - The WitnessSophie’s evaluation took three days. When the hospital finally cleared me to see her, it was in a sterile, quiet room at the county center. She looked smaller than I remembered. Her curls, usually wild, were tied back tightly. When she saw me, she didn't run. She flinched.
That flinch destroyed me more than any punch ever could.
"Sophie," I whispered, kneeling on the floor so I was at her level. I stayed ten feet away. "It’s Dad. I’m here. You’re safe."
"Abuelo said you were never coming back," she whispered. Her voice was flat, devoid of the sparkle that used to define her. "He said you didn't care about us."
"I care more than anything," I said, tears finally breaking through. "I was an idiot, Sophie. I was working when I should have been watching. But I’m here now, and I’m not leaving."
We talked for hours. She told me things that made my blood freeze—how they would lock her in the closet if she drew pictures of people "she didn't know," how they would force her to stand for hours until her legs went numb. Lourdes wasn't just a bystander; she was an active participant in the psychological dismantling of our child.
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"Mommy said it was for my own good," Sophie said, her hands trembling in her lap.
"It wasn't," I said, my voice firm. "It was wrong. And they are going to pay for every second of it."
