I felt my pulse beating against the collar of my coat.
I reminded myself why I had come.
Listen.
“Did you put a plastic bag under her clothes?”
Teresa’s mouth tightened.
“It was temporary.”
“Why?”
“To make her sweat.”
“Because she ate cookies?”
“She needs to understand consequences.”
I could hear my own heartbeat.
“What kind of consequence?”
Teresa waved one hand dismissively.
“You make everything sound ugly.”
“I’m asking what you did.”
“I made her move around a little. I told her she needed discipline.”
“She came home with marks.”
Teresa looked away for half a second.
“Children bruise.”
“Straight marks?”
Her eyes came back to mine.
“She was being difficult.”
I said nothing.
The silence made her continue.
That was something I had learned from years of dealing with Teresa.
If you argued, she became defensive.
If you stayed quiet, she often filled the space herself.
“She kept pulling it off,” Teresa said.
“The bag?”
“Yes.”
“Because she was hot?”
“She was being defiant.”
“She’s six.”
“You keep saying that as though six-year-olds cannot learn.”
I clenched my hand inside my coat pocket.
My phone kept recording.
I thought about Sofía crying on my bed.
About the way she had asked if she was in trouble.
About the marks across her lower back.
“What did you use when she took the bag off?”
Teresa gave me a long look.
“You came here wanting a confession.”
