The house that once vibrated with laughter, songs, and the smell of homemade bread now smells of paint on the walls, broken toys, and pent-up tears. My daughters, God, my daughters. Mariana, the eldest, is 12 years old and has the sharpest mind I’ve ever seen in a child; she leads her sisters as if they were a small army waging war against the world.
She was the one who told me on the day of her mother’s funeral, “No woman will ever take her place, Dad. No one.” Since then, every nanny who comes in becomes an enemy to be defeated. Then there are the twins, Beatriz and Bianca, 6 years old. Two little girls who smile as they plot. They put fake insects in shoes, block doors with glue, hide food in drawers.
Their laughter, when they’re planning a prank, sounds almost like a defense mechanism against the pain. Ten-year-old Laura has a different kind of battle. Since Claris died, she’s been pulling out clumps of her own hair. There are bald patches on her head, marks of anxiety that even the most expensive psychologists haven’t been able to stop. Nine-year-old Julia suffers from panic attacks, especially at night.
Sometimes I hear her scream her mother’s name from across the hall, and I freeze in front of the door, not knowing how to help her. Sofia, 8 years old, has started wetting the bed again. Not by accident, but out of fear, due to the emotional regression her mind can’t control. And finally, Isabela, my little 3-year-old, who hardly speaks since losing her mother, barely whispers a word or two and only eats when she falls asleep.
