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When I married Javier and moved with him to Valencia, his five-year-old daughter, Lucía, came to live with us full time. She was a gentle child with large, thoughtful eyes, and from the moment she arrived, I felt a responsibility to give her a warm and stable home. But from the very first week, something worried me deeply. No matter what I cooked, no matter how softly I encouraged her, she simply would not eat.
This concern grew heavier with each passing day. For an older audience who understands the quiet instinct of caregiving, you know that when a child repeatedly refuses food, it’s rarely just about appetite. I prepared simple meals, comforting meals, dishes children often enjoy—yet her plate stayed untouched. She would lower her gaze and whisper the same words night after night:
She called me Mom from the start. It was innocent and affectionate, but it carried a weight I didn’t yet understand. At breakfast she could manage a small glass of milk, but that was all. I spoke to Javier repeatedly, hoping he had insight I lacked.
“She just needs time,” he would say with a tired sigh. “It was harder for her before. Let her adjust.”
There was something in his tone—resigned, uncertain—that left me uneasy. Still, I tried to trust that what she needed most was patience.
A week later, Javier left for a short work trip. The very first night he was gone, as I was tidying the kitchen, I heard small footsteps behind me. Lucía stood there in her wrinkled pajamas, hugging her stuffed animal as though it were the only solid thing in her world.
“Can’t you sleep, sweetheart?” I asked gently.
She shook her head. Her lips trembled. Then she said words that made my heart stop.
“Mom… I need to tell you something.”
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