Chapter 3: The Video She Never Wanted Me To See
I didn’t press play immediately.
My thumb hovered over the screen while the words stared back at me.
*You need to see what happened after you left.*
A part of me wanted to throw the phone across the room.
Another part of me was terrified of what I would find.
Because deep down, I already knew something.
The picture wasn’t an accident.
The message wasn’t a misunderstanding.
Someone had been watching.
Someone had known my daughter was suffering while I was thousands of miles away, believing everything my wife told me.
“Who is sending you messages?”” Beatriz asked.
Her voice was quieter now.
Too quiet.
I looked at her.
“I don’t know.””
“Then why are you listening to them?””
“Because they sent me a picture of my daughter being treated like a servant.””
Her face hardened.
“That’s not fair.””
“Fair?””
“Yes.””
She stepped closer.
“You’re acting like I’m some kind of monster.””
I almost answered.
But then I remembered Sofia’s voice.
Daddy shouldn’t see me like this.
A child’s first instinct shouldn’t be to hide pain from the person who loves her.
“I’m going to watch the video,” I said.
Beatriz’s expression changed instantly.
“No.””
The word came too fast.
Too desperate.
I noticed.
“You just told me not to believe strangers.””
“Yes.””
“Then why are you afraid of what they sent?””
“I’m not afraid.””
“You are.””
She looked away.
“Daniel, it could be edited.””
“Then let me see.””
She shook her head.
“Not tonight.””
I stared at her.
“Not tonight?””
“Yes. You just got home. You’re exhausted.
Sofia is emotional. We’re all stressed.””
She was trying to delay.
I knew it.
And I knew why.
So I walked upstairs.
Not toward our bedroom.
Toward Sofia’s room.
Behind me, Beatriz called my name.
“Daniel.””
I stopped.
“What?””
Her voice softened.
The same voice she used when she wanted to pull me back.
“I love you.””
I turned around.
For years, those words would have been enough.
Tonight, they sounded different.
“I wish I knew when you stopped loving her.””
Her face went pale.
Then I walked away.
Sofia was awake.
I knew because the moment I opened her door, she sat up quickly.
Like she had been waiting.
“Daddy?””
I sat beside her.
“Why aren’t you sleeping?””
She pulled her blanket closer.
“I heard you and Mommy talking.””
I nodded.
“I’m sorry.””
She looked confused.
“Why are you sorry?””
Because I should have known.
Because I should have seen it.
Because I should have asked more questions.
But I couldn’t put those thoughts on an eight-year-old child.
Instead, I said:
“Because I wasn’t here enough.””
Sofia looked down.
“You were working.””
“Yes.””
“For us.””
“Yes.””
She was quiet.
Then she whispered:
“Mommy says you only care because you feel guilty.””
I felt my chest tighten.
“What else does Mommy say?””
Sofia immediately shook her head.
“Nothing.””
“Sofia.””
She looked scared.
I lowered my voice.
“You’re not in trouble.””
She played with the corner of her blanket.
“She says I make you worried.””
“That’s not true.””
“She says when you come home, I should make you happy because you work hard.””
I swallowed.
“And do you think that?””
She didn’t answer.
That was answer enough.
I reached out and held her hand.
“Sweetheart, your job is not to make adults happy.””
Her eyes filled with tears.
“Then what’s my job?””
I smiled sadly.
“To be eight.””
A tiny smile appeared.
Only for a second.
But it was there.
Then she looked toward the door.
“Daddy?””
“Yes?””
“Are you going to leave again?””
The question broke something inside me.
“I don’t know yet.””
She looked away.
“I understand.””
No.
She didn’t.
A child shouldn’t understand abandonment.
A child should only understand bedtime stories and scraped knees and birthday candles.
Not whether a parent would disappear again.
I kissed her forehead.
“Get some sleep.””
As I stood up, Sofia grabbed my hand.
“Daddy.””
“Yes?””
“Don’t make Mommy angry.””
I froze.
“Why?””
Her fingers tightened around mine.
“Because after you leave the room, she gets different.””
I felt every hair on my arms rise.
“Different how?””
Sofia looked toward the hallway.
Then she whispered:
“She smiles when you’re here.””
A pause.
“But when you’re not…”
She stopped.
“Not what?””
Her eyes filled with fear.
“She doesn’t smile.””
I waited until Sofia was asleep before I returned downstairs.
Beatriz was sitting at the kitchen table.
The lights were off except for the small lamp above the counter.
She looked tired.
But I no longer knew if that tiredness was real.
“You talked to her,” she said.
“Yes.””
“You shouldn’t have questioned her.””
“I asked my daughter if she was okay.””
“You made her choose sides.””
“No.””
I sat across from her.
“She already thought she had to choose.””
Beatriz looked away.
“I’m her mother.””
“And I’m her father.””
“Yes.””
“Then why does she look afraid of you?””
The question hung between us.
For several seconds, she said nothing.
Then she whispered:
“You don’t understand.””
“Then explain.””
She rubbed her forehead.
“I have been alone.””
There it was.
The explanation she wanted to use.
The one she had probably repeated to herself hundreds of times.
“I took care of everything while you were gone.””
“I know.””
“No, you don’t.””
Her voice cracked.
“You got on planes. You went to meetings. You slept in hotels. You had people bringing you coffee and cleaning your room.””
I stayed silent.
Because she was right about one thing.
I had been gone.
But then she said:
“And I had to deal with her.””
My eyes narrowed.
“Deal with her?””
Beatriz sighed.
“Don’t twist my words.””
“I’m asking what they mean.””
“She became difficult.””
“Sofia?””
“Yes.””
I stared at her.
“My eight-year-old daughter became difficult?””
“You weren’t here.””
“That’s not an answer.””
She stood up.
“She cried all the time after you left.””
“Because she missed me.””
“She was dramatic.””
“No.””
My voice became firm.
“She was a child missing her father.””
Beatriz looked angry now.
“You always make her innocent.””
“Because she is a child.””
“And I’m the villain.””
“I didn’t say that.””
“You didn’t have to.””
She walked toward the counter.
Then I saw something.
A folder.
Half-hidden beneath some mail.
I recognized the logo.
Sofia’s school.
My stomach tightened.
“Why is there a school folder there?””
Beatriz immediately moved.
Too quickly.
“It’s nothing.””
I stood.
“What is it?””
“Daniel.””
“What is it?””
She grabbed it.
“It’s private.””
“About our daughter?””
“Yes.””
“Then I should see it.””
She hesitated.
That hesitation told me everything.
I took the folder.
Inside were papers.
School notices.
Behavior reports.
Counselor appointments.
My eyes moved down the pages.
The dates started two months after I left.
*Student showing increased anxiety.*
*Student appears withdrawn during class.*
*Student reports feeling responsible for household tasks.*
My hands began to shake.
Then I saw the counselor’s handwritten note.
One sentence.
One sentence that made my blood run cold.
*Sofia says she is afraid to tell her father because she believes he will blame her mother.*
I looked at Beatriz.
“What did you tell her?””
She didn’t answer.
“What did you tell our daughter?””
“I never said that.””
“Then why does she believe it?””
“I don’t know.””
But she did.
I knew she did.
My phone buzzed again.
The same unknown number.
Another message.
This time, only a name.
*Mrs. Elena Carter.*
And beneath it:
*Ask your wife why Sofia’s teacher stopped calling you.*
I looked at the name.
My daughter’s teacher.
The person who should have told me.
The person who might have known everything.
I picked up my jacket.
“Where are you going?”” Beatriz asked.
I looked at her.
“To find out who was protecting my daughter while I was away.””
As I opened the front door, Beatriz said something that made me stop.
Something that changed everything.
“Daniel…”
May you like
Her voice trembled.
“You don’t know what Sofia told them about me.””
