The man had just crossed the gate when he heard his daughter’s cries coming from the pigsty behind the house. The scene before him was so devastating that even a war-hardened soldier had to remain motionless. But it was the way he handled the situation that changed the entire village’s way of seeing things. One can travel hundreds of kilometers, cross deserts and mountains, but sometimes the distance between two people is nothing more than a letter that never reached its destination.

Tomás Herrera sat silently by the bus window, his hands in exactly the same position since the vehicle left the northern terminal. Between his legs rested a dusty, but tidy, earth-colored backpack. The palm of his hand was slightly damp, not from sweat, but from the worn paper he held, the blue ink now only a blurred line, almost like chalk. It was the letter he had just read for the third time since leaving the barracks, and as every time, the ending always made his throat dry.

Dad, I didn’t have breakfast today. Mama Miriam said there were no more eggs at the house, but I saw the woman who sells them walk by. I didn’t ask anything, because if I did, they’d leave me outside in the yard. I’m telling you so that when you get back, you can knock on the back door, because the front one is locked. The handwriting was shaky, tilted to the left. Each word, written with the clumsiness of a child’s hand, still developing but full of determination, Alma wrote as if she were afraid someone would tear the letter up, or worse, not even read it.

Tomás lowered his head and turned to the next page. Each letter showed signs of having been opened. Some were slightly torn at the edges, as if someone had hesitated before deciding not to send them. One of them had stains that looked like rain, but Tomás knew very well there was no storm inside a sealed envelope. The bus driver, a man with graying hair and a wrinkled face, thin but agile, suddenly broke the silence. “You’re a soldier.”

“That old backpack says a lot.” Tomás raised his head, closed the packet of letters, and placed it on his lap. “Yes, I just returned after four years.” The driver nodded, keeping his eyes on the road. Silence once again filled the space between them for a few minutes. The bus jolted along the rocky road that led south, flanked by rows of sturdy cacti. As they were about to reach the second fork, the one that connected to the dirt road that crossed the ranches, the driver murmured, almost inaudible.

I don’t know if you’ve heard, but they say a little girl from the Herrera family was locked in the pigsty. A whole week without food. How horrible! Tomás shuddered. The last name Herrera wasn’t common around here. And that little girl turned her head away, trying hard to remain calm. What did she say? What little girl? The chauffeur looked at him in the rearview mirror and gave him a wry smile. No, nothing. You know how it is in town. There are always rumors. Maybe they just grounded her out in the yard.

Nothing serious. Tomás didn’t respond. He looked out the window again, but this time he saw nothing. His mind began to spin like a whirlwind. The bus continued moving slowly, bumping from pothole to pothole. But inside Tomás, all the sounds seemed compressed. The letters, the words that returned again and again like an echo in a forgotten well. He had left his daughter in Miriam’s care on the very day of his wife’s funeral. Alma was barely 3 years old.

She was still sucking her thumb and didn’t know how to tie her shoelaces. Miriam, in mourning and wearing a simple black dress, said calmly, “I’ll take care of her as if she were my own daughter. I had peace of mind. A house with a child needs a woman.” Tomás didn’t object. He was a soldier, used to following orders. The pain of losing his wife made him cling to anything that sounded reasonable. He thought he had done the right thing. He believed that an experienced woman like Miriam, who had also been a close friend of his late wife, would bring stability to his daughter.

He just thought about it. For a moment, Tomás reviewed his memories of the letters from the barracks. Most of them were typewritten, official notices, letters from colleagues. He never received one written in a child’s handwriting. There was never any sign that Alma had tried to contact him. Until Dr. Felipe Andrade, a friend of his father, sent him a packet of letters along with a message. “I think you should read this before you return.” Tomás clenched his fists. The bus shook sharply as it rounded a curve.

The driver turned on the radio. An old bolero began to play with a hoarse female voice. I’m not an angel, nor a dream. I’m just a woman standing in front of a closed door, not knowing if someone is crying inside. Tomás pressed his lips together and looked again at the letters in his hands. One of the last ones was written in pencil, already blurred, but still legible. Dad, we don’t have a window anymore. One day I saw a mouse get into my bed. I didn’t tell Mama Miriam, because the last time I told her, she threw all my pillows into the yard.

Something inside Tomás’s chest broke. It wasn’t a scream or unbridled rage, but that kind of soft, silent pain that can cut deeper than a knife. The silence of a father who wasn’t there when his daughter needed him. The bus stopped in an empty lot near the entrance to the town. The driver opened the door and handed him the heavy backpack. Tomás thanked him and got off, his shoulders heavy but his steps firm.

Before him stretched the red dirt path that led to the old house, where Alma used to draw dolls with colored chalk on the walls. He didn’t know if those walls still existed. He didn’t know if his daughter was still waiting for him. He didn’t hurry. He bent down, picked up a small white stone, and put it in his shirt pocket. Sometimes a father doesn’t need weapons; he just needs to know he’s walking toward where he’s most needed. Daughter, Daddy is home now.

There are things in life that don’t need to be explained with words. One can recognize sadness simply by seeing that the old tablecloth has been replaced with a white lace one that’s too new, or by feeling how strangeness creeps into the same house that was once his, just because the curtains no longer hold the scent of time. Tomás Herrera stood in front of the old house where he had lived with his late wife. The house was no longer a home, just a wooden frame carefully polished to erase everything.

A trace of the years gone by. The windows had been replaced with gleaming glass, the walls freshly painted, and the wedding photo that had once hung above the altar was gone, not a trace of it left. Miriam Gutiérrez had changed everything. Too clean, to be honest, he reached out and touched the door handle. There was no sound of a dog barking, nor the scraping of sandals on the tiles, like the days when Alma would run to greet him.

Only silence, as if that place had decided to reject the past. Tomás didn’t knock. Instead, he walked around the narrow side hallway. The rusty gate was still there, its paint peeling off in patches, and the hinge groaned faintly when he pushed it. The backyard no longer had the hibiscus his wife used to plant. Only a few cacti grew freely around the old stone. The bamboo in the background was still there, but shorter. Perhaps someone had pruned it so as not to obstruct the view from the kitchen to the yard.

Then he heard the first sound. It wasn’t a voice talking, nor the television or the radio. It was a harsh shout from someone’s throat. Get up, clean this mess up already, you useless mess. Then, a dull thud, the sound of skin against skin, followed by a muffled spit. Tomás quickened his pace in the corner of the yard where the old pigsty had once been, now covered by a thin tarp. Something didn’t add up, but he still couldn’t understand why, as he drew closer, another vulgar shout pierced the air.

Without a mother, you should be among the animals. If it weren’t for pity, you would have already died of hunger. She threw back the canvas with a swipe. In the dim afternoon light, she saw her daughter Alma curled up on the straw. Her nightgown was torn at the shoulder, her heels scraped, and dust stuck to her hair. Her face held no tears, only a blank, terrified look. In front of her stood Miriam, a leather belt in her hand, her face red with fury.

Alma was shoved with her foot into the corner of the pigsty. Her shoulder hit the dry wood, making the structure creak like a wail. Tomás didn’t go in immediately. He stood there motionless like a statue. Only his hands clenched into fists. His nails dug into his palms until they bled, but he didn’t scream, didn’t raise his voice. There’s no room for noise when one has reached the deepest limit of pain. He moved forward, pushed the wooden pin, and hit himself without making almost a sound.

Alma looked up. Her cloudy eyes fixed on him and remained motionless. The smell of sweat, gunpowder, and mountain wind—the smell of her father—enveloped her completely. The girl sat up suddenly, almost falling. Her legs couldn’t support her, but before she could utter a sound, Tomás had her in his arms. Alma threw herself at his chest, burying her face in his shirt, covered with road dust. “Daddy. It really is you.” He hugged her tightly.

Here I am. Miriam turned around. Her face turned pale. Tomás, when did you come back? I was just scaring her a little. The girl, you know how stubborn she is. Tomás sat up, still holding her soul. “I left my daughter with a handcuff,” he said slowly, each word weighing like a stone, “not with a jailer.” Miriam undid the belt clumsily, stuttering. “I looked after her the whole time you were away. I get tired too. She doesn’t listen. She’s always silent, sitting.”

He was afraid she was sick. Tomás remained silent. He looked at her not as a husband, but as a father who has seen too much to need another excuse. He was afraid she was sick, or that she would talk about what you did to her. Miriam paled even further. Tomás left the pigsty and crossed the yard. Each step left a blurred trail of dust on the falsely clean cement. “Where are you thinking of taking her? You don’t have a home, you have nothing.” Zrenia called after him. Miriam didn’t respond; only the low, soulful voice could be heard next to his ear.

Dad, I’m not afraid of being poor, I’m just afraid of the old smell of the pigsty. Tomás hugged her tighter. The little girl buried her face in her father’s neck, inhaling deeply that scent she had sought so many nights among the folded shirts under her pillow, trying to imagine a shoulder, a back, a warmth absent in the darkness. The neighbors began to look out their windows. The woman across the street opened the curtain. The old man at the fish stand stopped washing, looking at the man walking away with a battered little girl in his arms.

No one said anything. The silence wasn’t out of fear, it was out of guilt. Everyone had seen, knew, but no one spoke. Tomás didn’t look back; he passed through the rusty iron gate, and the hinge creaked again. This time, to close an old chapter, one filled with lies, appearances, and silence. The little girl in his arms asked softly, “Daddy, are you still mad at me?” Tomás paused for a moment, then shook his head. “No, my darling, it’s not your fault.” A country breeze blew toward them.

It didn’t carry the smell of manure or the fragrance of flowers. It was just a quiet, gentle wind, just enough to dispel the chill of fear that still caressed their necks. And so, when the sun leaned over the top of the palm tree, Tomás knew the rage inside him had been extinguished. There was only one determination left: to get his daughter out of that pigsty, not just with his feet, but also with his heart. The late-season wind swept across the old tin roof of the small office on the hill.

The thin white curtains swayed as if trying to retain the last ray of lost sunlight, a pale yellow resembling the color of memories that have already dried. The smell of disinfectant hung in the air as if it had been there for decades, permeating the faded walls. On the wooden table by the window, a vase of wild daisies leaned slightly, an imperfect gesture from someone who still retains the habit of caring, even though time has already asked them to surrender.

There were only three people in the room. Alma sat in the examination chair, her feet dangling off the floor. Her wrinkled dress fell to her knees. Tomás stood behind her, still clutching his daughter’s shoulder. He hadn’t said a word since they entered, but his gaze never left every tiny movement in the girl’s chest. Dr. Claudia Navarro, her hair already tinged with gray, but her eyes as steady as the rocks in the mountains, leaned gently over and lifted the collar of Alma’s dress.

A soft sigh escaped her lips. No one answered, but suddenly the room grew colder. She took out her stethoscope, placed it on the girl’s back, and murmured as if speaking to herself. “Did you know she’s been tied up inside the playpen more than once?” Tomás didn’t reply; only a soft sound was heard when he tightened the strap of his backpack, as if trying to prevent his rage from exploding into words. He slowly closed his eyes, then opened them again as if to engrave that question into his soul.

The doctor bent her head, gently running her fingers over each scar. One below the shoulder blade, another on the inside of the thigh. Scratches still red, dark bruises, some already turning yellow, signs of an old, but never-healed pain. Alman was crying. He looked up at the intense light from the overhead spotlight. His eyes held no resentment, only something like waiting, as if he were still unsure whether trust was worth keeping. Tomás knelt and took his daughter’s hand. It was small, cold, like a stone forgotten in the garden.

Papa, if he really came back, Swing, Alma’s voice was barely a whisper, so faint it could disappear if not listened to carefully. Tomás nodded slowly but firmly. “And you’re not going to leave again, Zrenia?” This time the girl didn’t take her gaze off him. He remained silent. That question was like a knife piercing the days in the barracks where the letters she wrote never received a reply. But then he squeezed her hand, his lips firm, as if one more word could break her heart.

Dr. Claudia closed the file, wrote some notes, then spoke in a low voice. “We have to report this to the authorities, but I suppose you don’t expect anything from them.” Tomás just shook his head. It wasn’t a lack of faith in the law, but the certainty that some wounds can’t be healed with paperwork. He knew that for his daughter to rise from that quagmire, the first thing she needed wasn’t a sentence, but a warm place where she could believe in tomorrow.

Before leaving, the doctor placed a hand on his shoulder, her eyes filled with concern. I spoke about this once with someone at the police station. They told me, “Everyone resolves their own family issues. Now I just hope you still have the strength to do the right thing.” Tomás lowered his head in gratitude. He said nothing, but in his gaze there was something as hard as steel, as silent as stone, about to break from within. Night fell quickly in the mountains.

The dim light from the police station barely illuminated the window of the small boarding house where father and daughter were taking refuge for now. Tomás sat at the wooden table. An oil lamp illuminated the crumpled papers he had brought from the old house. Some were torn at the corners, the pencil writing almost erased. They were letters that had never been sent. He opened them one by one without reading them aloud, but each word pierced his chest.

Daddy, I got scolded today because I don’t know how to fold clothes like Mommy. Aunt says I’m pretending to be stupid. I sleep alone. There are mice outside. I wish Mommy were still alive. Aunt says you’ll never come back. I don’t believe her. But if I’m wrong, will you forgive me? Yes. Tomás stopped when he saw a smaller piece of paper with finer handwriting. Maybe when Alma was even younger. It was tilted to one side, as if she had written it secretly or in a hurry.

I’m sorry if I made Aunt angry, it’s just that I miss Mom. Her hand trembled, not from anger, but from how terrifyingly serene that truth was. A six- or seven-year-old girl apologizing for remembering her mother. She got up and approached the bed. Alma was sleeping, clutching a thin pillow. Her eyelids trembled as if she were dreaming. Tomás didn’t wake her; he just placed his hand gently on hers. “Whatever you write, I’ll read,” she whispered, like an oath to herself.

Whether it’s for Mom, the wind, or an imaginary friend, I’ll read it because it’s the only way to understand you after so many lost years. He sat on the edge of the bed, feeling the child’s faint warmth pass into his palm. Much, much later, he spoke again in a murmur so low he seemed afraid the words would wake the child. No one has the right to take away a child’s memories, and no one should use love as a weapon of punishment.

The wind blew through the crack in the door, stirring the tilted curtain like a silent witness. Tomás looked up at the hazy sky, where the hills seemed to silently watch over the village’s sleep. He was no longer a retired soldier looking for shelter; he was a father rebuilding trust from the ruins, brick by brick, with his own hands. There are wounds that make no sound, but live forever in a child’s soul. And sometimes it’s not courage that helps us face them, but a silence deep enough to hear them speak.

In lands like San Nicolás del Enino, where evil doesn’t always have a visible form, love needs a body, a face, and sometimes all it needs is a father willing to read what his daughter once wrote. On the old table in the medical center sat an old-fashioned clock. It didn’t tick. It was silent, like the breath held in the chest of someone unaccustomed to waiting. The hour hand pointed to 4 o’clock; the minute hand barely moved.

Dr. Felipe Andrade paced back and forth, still clutching a cup of cold coffee. He said nothing, but his gaze was filled with thoughts, like someone who has witnessed so many things that can’t be told. In the hallway, the dried muddy footprints left by Alma were still visible, small footprints that stretched out until they stopped in front of the office door. Inside, Tomás was sleeping in a wooden chair, one hand resting on his daughter’s leg, as if letting go for a second would mean losing her again.

Alma shifted slightly, resting her head on a folded jacket. Her face showed no true relaxation. In the dim lamplight, her brows remained slightly furrowed. No rooster crowed, no bell rang. But Tomás opened his eyes. Tomás stood for a long time in front of the wooden gate, as if trying to hear something through the cracks in that house that was no longer his. The wind carried the smell of dead leaves mixed with a cheap perfume.

The air no longer had the damp scent of old stucco, but a stench, artificial like makeup covering wounded skin. The shade tree that once provided coolness on hot days was now just a rough trunk, with branches roughly cut, like open, unhealed wounds. Every step Tomás took toward the door stirred buried memories, and he was no longer sure if this place still deserved to be called home. Tomás knocked on the door. The knock wasn’t loud, but it resonated clearly in the absolute silence.

The door opened. In front of him stood Miriam, her hair styled in soft waves, her red lips, and her smile as if nothing had happened. “What else are you looking for? The girl is being treated well at the medical center. Isn’t that what you wanted?” Her voice held no trace of embarrassment or discomfort; it was unnervingly calm. Behind Miriam stood Doña Graciela Rivas, the neighbor who always thought she had the right to know everything. She was still holding her coffee cup, her gaze sliding from Tomás to the cloth bag he was carrying.

I’ve come for my identity papers, my family register, my soul’s, and everything that belongs to her. Tomás’s voice wasn’t harsh or restrained; it was cold and measured, like that of someone no longer surprised by betrayal. Miriam gave a dry, weak, but sharp laugh. And you plan to support her with what? With your ex-mistress’s pension? With honor? Tomás looked her straight in the eyes and answered without raising his voice. I have something you never had.

The courage to not look the other way when my daughter lives like garbage. That’s enough. Doña Graciela joined the conversation with a supposedly conciliatory tone. In reality, everyone here knows that Miriam loved her as if she were her own. That’s what everyone says. Tomás didn’t look at her; he slipped through the door and walked into the living room without waiting for an invitation. On the wall, the family photos had been replaced. Alma was no longer in the frames. In her place, a new image.

Miriam posing alone on a beach. “Where are my papers?” Miriam crossed her arms and leaned against the door. “I don’t have anything, ask at the police station. Although if you want, I can give you some money so you don’t have any complications raising her, for old times’ sake, you know.” Tomás remained silent, opened a drawer in an old piece of furniture, and from there took out a thin envelope with copies of the family registry and the birth certificate. They were old papers, but they were enough to confirm a relationship that no one could erase.

As he left, his gaze slid over Miriam as if he were already looking at someone who had died long ago. That night, as the wind began to creep through the cracks in the medical center, a soft knocking sound was heard. Tomás opened the door and saw a woman in a shawl clutching a small bag. “Do you remember me? I’m Leticia Solís. I worked at your house for a while. I’m not staying. I just came to give you this.” Tomás invited her in, but she shook her head.

Leticia put the bag on the table and took out a small tape recorder with worn buttons. It’s the voice of a soul recorded one June night. I heard her crying, pleading from the pigsty. I couldn’t take it anymore. I went to the police, but Miriam has influence. No one would listen to me. Tomás turned on the device. A child’s voice sounded from the speaker, broken, weak, as if gasping for air. I’m cold, I can’t breathe. Someone, open the door for me, please. There were no comments. No thanks.

Tomás lowered his head and closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them, they were red, but dry. “Miriam had a biological daughter,” Leticia whispered, but sent her to another state when she was only 3 years old. From then on, he never asked about her. He only wanted Alma when there were witnesses. Tomás wasn’t surprised, he wasn’t startled, he just held the recorder, squeezing it a little. We always think that in a small town, everything is quickly forgotten, but in small towns, ears are closer to the ground.

People see, people hear, but they’re just afraid. Leticia moved away from the threshold without a trace. Just before disappearing down the alley toward the main street, she paused for a moment and turned. Her voice was barely audible, but clear enough for Tomás to remember it forever. Not everyone remains silent because they have no heart. Some wait for someone else to summon the courage to know they’re not alone. Tomás carefully closed the door.

He walked toward the bed. Alma was still asleep, her cheeks flushed from the heat of the room. Her small hands, closed over her chest, no longer hung like sapless branches. Her sleeping posture now resembled a cocoon finally covering its most vulnerable part. He placed the tape recorder in the drawer, then sat down beside her. For the first time, he felt that his soul wasn’t as heavy as the storm the night before. The town wasn’t as small as many believed, except that sometimes it falls silent, listening to those who dare to speak.

First, the soft light of dusk slid over the low tiles, falling diagonally onto a white sheet hung behind the house. The fabric didn’t smell of soap as one might expect, but rather like the sweat of someone who had painstakingly boiled water for handwashing. Tomás Herrera held a small aluminum bucket, his hands tense from wringing out an already worn beige dress, his face tilted as if in conversation with the earth. In one corner of the yard, Alma sat under the shade of a guava tree, hugging her knees, watching an ant drag a crumb of bread she had hidden that morning.

There was no crying, no laughter. Tomás continued washing in silence, as if that silence was the only thing that allowed father and daughter to breathe in that house. When Alma agreed to drink half a glass of milk at noon, Tomás didn’t celebrate or praise her; he just placed his hand on her head, patting her gently, and placed a plastic cup beside her. They understood each other without words. The girl was afraid of the light. Every time the window opened, she would take refuge in a corner and cover herself with a blanket.

Tomás knew this, but he didn’t force her. Instead, he took her to the porch every time dusk fell so the darkness would take away some of her fear and only the wind would caress her forehead. At night, when the two of them sat on the old wooden bed, Tomás would pick up his small mahogany guitar, now without a string. He would strum slow notes and then sing: “Go to sleep, my child, the sun is setting. The stars are watching over your sleep there.”

The voice wasn’t perfect, but it was warm. Alma slowly closed her eyes. Her eyelids fluttered, then went still. Her breathing became even. Tomás watched her without looking away. A long time later, she exhaled a sigh, like a thank you to the heavens outside. A soldier’s daughter doesn’t need pity; she just needs a place where no one will force her to be afraid again. The next morning, when the birdsong mingled with the smell of fried eggs, Alma picked up the spoon on her own.

Tomas pretended to be busy folding clothes so as not to look directly at that moment, but his hand trembled a little when he heard the sound of the spoon hitting the side of the bowl. He waited until the girl had finished almost all of her food and then said, “I want to see someone today. Will you come with me?” Alma looked up. Her eyes didn’t sparkle like those of children who have been loved unconditionally, but there was a small glimmer in them, like a silent, firm assent.

The village’s primary school was behind the old church, where the roof was already deteriorating, but the walls still retained their yellowed, worn paint. Tomás led his daughter along. Each step was a test through the village streets, where everyone watched, but no one said anything. Teacher Mateo was arranging books when Tomás knocked on the splintered wooden door. The old teacher frowned slightly, then narrowed his eyes as if he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

He put the book on the table and approached. Tomás, it’s me. And this is Alma? Tomás didn’t have time to nod when Alma took a half step back, clutching the hem of her father’s shirt. Maestro Mateo looked at her with an expression that came from a long time ago, as if he had once stood in the rain without an umbrella, and now could only stare at the puddle left behind. “I still have the notebook you gave me,” he said slowly. “There’s a drawing where you’re next to someone in uniform holding a loaf of bread.” Tomás said nothing, but Alma looked up.

She stared at him for a few seconds, then pressed her lips together. No one told her what to do. But she came closer. Mateo bent down and opened his arms. Alma sank into his embrace. The father at her side made a fist. At noon, under a sun as dry as sand, Tomás went to the town police station. He placed the photos of his daughter’s injuries on the table, along with the medical report and a handwritten letter detailing what had happened. The officer on duty, wearing a faded shirt, avoided eye contact.

as if he feared the honesty that father radiated. He needs more conclusive evidence. Tomás responded calmly. I thought this was enough to open a file. You know, this case isn’t simple. It’s not simple, Tomás repeated. My daughter was locked in a pig pen. She has strap marks on her back. And yet, isn’t it clear enough for them to write a single line? The officer scratched his head, muttering, “It’s just that Doña Miriam has relatives on the committee.

“I can’t guarantee that the file will end up where it should.” Tomás nodded emotionlessly, stood up, and gathered the documents. “Thank you.” His voice wasn’t angry, but it was as thick as a stone falling into deep water. Later that afternoon, as Tomás stood on the porch with his small guitar at his side, a woman appeared in front of the gate. She was wearing a furry coat, a wide-brimmed hat, her face weathered by the sun, and her eyes full of history. “Are you Tomás?”

Yes, my name is Carmen. I studied teaching with Miriam. Tomás nodded, not knowing what she expected. I worked at the town school. Two years ago, I defended an abused girl. It was Alma. Tomás’s breath hitched, but he didn’t interrupt her. Miriam fabricated that I had stolen money from the school fund. I was fired. No one believed me because she had influence with the president of the Parents’ Association. Tomás didn’t ask any more questions; he just listened. Carmen looked toward the window, where Alma was hiding behind the curtain.

If you need someone to testify, I’ll go to court. Why? Tomás asked. Carmen pressed her lips together. “Because I don’t want another mother to have the right to trample on a little girl just because she can scream the loudest.” Tomás was silent for a long time. “Thank you,” he said. “Very quietly, firmly.” That night Alma fell asleep early. Tomás stayed by the light of the oil lamp, strumming chords on the guitar. It wasn’t a lullaby or a sad melody, just uncertain notes, but true, like the path he was traveling.

Behind her, Carmen looked once more at the half-open gate. She thought that perhaps what they call justice doesn’t always come with sirens and summons. Sometimes it comes with trembling hands that dare to knock again, to tell a story that was once silenced by a girl who didn’t know how to scream. Tomás carefully lifted the flap of the gray envelope. Inside was the acknowledgment of receipt of the complaint filed with the Durango State Court, in fresh ink and with the full name of the defendant, Miriam Gutiérrez de Herrera.

He didn’t read it again. There was no need to. The words no longer mattered as much as the warmth in his hand when Alma gently squeezed his fingers and asked, “So, are they really going to take her before Judge Papa?” Tomás looked at his daughter. In those bright brown eyes, there was something that made him hold his voice. It wasn’t fear, but an innocent faith, too great for a child who had lived so long in silence. She didn’t respond with words; she just nodded slowly.

From the front-desk hallway, firm footsteps sounded on the floor. Mrs. Carmen Paredes, her hair already graying but her body still straight, appeared with a bundle of documents in her hand. Her gaze toward Tomás was no longer one of doubt, but of respect and solidarity. “Boy, I’ve already printed three copies. One for the court, one for the police, and the last one for you. Thank you, ma’am.” Tomás received them carefully, his eyes lingering on the red seal that gleamed in the light.

Carmen sat down and poured a glass of iced lemon water she had brought. She didn’t ask permission or wait for approval. For her, helping Tomás wasn’t a favor; it was a moral responsibility. She had been the head nurse at the local hospital until Miriam fired her for refusing to ignore the bruises on Alma’s back. Do you know why no one said anything back then? Tomás shook his head. Because all the reports of child abuse in your house disappeared.

It wasn’t the system’s fault; it was the fault of one person, someone she was hiding as her last ace up her sleeve. She paused, took a sip of water, and added, “Miriam is a cousin of Representative Ignacio Cárdenas.” Tomás frowned. That name had sounded familiar to him from the news when he was still in office. They said Mr. Cárdenas was a man of the people, but behind the white beard and the political smile, he now understood. There are cruelties that don’t need a whip, just a seal.

Carmen handed him a thin folder. “Here’s the list of complaints that were sent to the State Child Protection Commission, but never reached their main office.” Tomás flipped through the pages one by one. The name Alma Herrera appeared three times. Twice signed by teacher Elena Robledo and once by Don Pedro, all crossed out in red ink with the notation “lack of evidence.” Tomás pressed his lips together. His hand trembled, not from fear, but from rage.

They had tried, but the wall of power devoured them. That night, while all of San Nicolás del Enino slept, Tomás sat down to write a letter by hand, something he hadn’t done since leaving the barracks. He sent it to his aunt Bernarda’s address in Veracruz, the same woman who had cared for his soul when his wife was still alive. He didn’t expect much, just a hint, something that didn’t come from Miriam. Three days later, an envelope arrived in the blue mailbox next to the door.

The sender, Aunt Bernarda, her handwriting firm, just like her usual character. Tomás, did you know that Miriam abandoned a child in an orphanage when she was 19? She never told anyone. But I remember it well, because I was the one who brought the child to the door of the shelter that year. Tomás stood motionless on the step. The yellowed letter struck his mind like a truth impossible to ignore. He always thought he knew Miriam—selfish, false, cold—but he never imagined that the woman he slept with every night would be capable of abandoning her own flesh and blood.

He didn’t cry; he just felt his eyes burn as if desert dust were whipping his face. And a silent question welled up inside him. How many years had he lived next to someone like that? Without knowing. The next day, Alma approached him silently while Tomás reviewed the file. She said nothing, just handed him a drawing on a pale yellow sheet of paper. “It’s for you, Dad.” The drawing was simple. A pigsty wide open, next to it a little girl in a torn dress holding the hand of a tall man with a faint scar on his cheek.

The sky wasn’t blue, but orange. The color Alma said was like the sunset when you took me out of the pigpen. Tomás placed the drawing on the table. With his fingers, he gently traced the still-fresh lines. That little girl seems to know how to walk on her own because she’s no longer afraid. Why? Alma didn’t raise her head; she only whispered because the other one wouldn’t let her sleep with the pigs anymore. A week later, at a meeting at the welfare office, Tomás heard something from a newly arrived employee.

Miriam applied for government assistance as a foster mother for an orphaned girl, claiming the father was absent for reasons beyond her control. She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. During the four years she spent on the border missing her daughter, Miriam received monthly government support as a stepmother to an orphaned girl—a considerable sum, close to 3,000 pesos a month. And she didn’t use it to raise Alma. What did she use it for? Tomás didn’t need to guess.

The expensive dresses, the trips to visit relatives in Hermosillo, the late nights returning smelling of liquor—it all made sense. Now, with the bank statement in hand, he turned and left. There was no longer any anger in his chest, only an urgent need. This time, justice should have a first and last name. Not everyone has the strength to forgive, but everyone deserves to be called by their true name. Tomás walked slowly down the hallway of the government building.

The last door at the back was the special inspector’s office. He adjusted his shirt and held the soul drawing tight. The girl didn’t need a stepmother; she needed something else: a father who knew how to firmly say, “Enough is enough.” And then he entered. He didn’t knock, he didn’t hesitate, he didn’t ask permission to speak the truth he had buried during his years as a soldier, because this time he wasn’t fighting for his country; he was fighting for a girl who had once slept with the pigs.

Not everyone who sits in the dock has committed a crime, but the truly cruel tend to speak more gently in court. In San Nicolás del Enino, the elders often repeat that phrase, especially on windless days, when everything seems calm, but the air smells of storm. Tomás Herrera didn’t look in the mirror; he straightened his shoelaces, his shirt wrinkled but straight-cut. The suit he wore wasn’t new, nor was it old, just black and sober, like his expression as he stood before the town court.

The small bag she carried contained no documents. Inside was a worn gray dress torn at the hem with a hand-sewn heart-shaped patch. Alma had worn that dress the day she was locked up. She didn’t need to bring her daughter, she just needed to bring her as proof of a silence impossible to deny. The preliminary hearing began at 9:00. The courtroom wasn’t full, but it wasn’t empty either. A few townspeople occupied the back benches, some with familiar faces, others just out of curiosity.

Don Pedro arrived very early, wearing his straw hat and carrying an old notebook. Leticia Solís, the former maid, sat next to Dr. Claudia Navarro. Dr. Lucía’s face was tense, but not hateful. Miriam Gutiérrez entered, escorted by two policewomen. She was wearing light-colored clothes and red lipstick. Her gait betrayed no guilt. As she sat down, she flashed a smile, a mixture of arrogance and contempt. “Your Honor,” she began in a level voice. “I don’t deny having been strict, but since when is raising a child considered a crime?”

“I never hit, I just corrected.” Tomas didn’t move. He placed the dress on the table in front of him and folded it carefully. When Miriam smiled a second time, he looked her straight in the eyes, without blinking. That smile fooled him once, but not again. “We present the evidence,” the prosecutor said, handing over a USB drive. The courtroom screen lit up. An audio recording played, with no image, no face, just a shrill, cruel voice.

Ungrateful. You’re a burden, a debt to me. If you want to eat, learn to obey. The audio was repeated twice. In the courtroom, some older women lowered their heads, their hands clasped tightly. A young man in the front row adjusted his shirt collar, his face tense. “Next, the images of the injuries,” the prosecutor added in a gentle but clear tone. The photographs appeared one by one: bruises, scratches, belt marks across the back. Dr.

Claudia was called to testify. She recounted how she received Alma with signs of malnutrition, pale skin, and old scars that had yet to heal. These weren’t just physical wounds, she said without taking her eyes off the file. They were deep emotional damage. The girl didn’t cry, she didn’t laugh, she didn’t react like the others. Fear was etched in her reflexes. Miriam forced a smile and looked at her defense attorney. He was a tall man in a brown suit, a man of few words. He only bowed his head once and asked to present the defense’s evidence.

We request that this document be considered not as justification, but to clarify a misunderstanding. He opened a beige folder and placed a bank statement in front of the judge. This is Mrs. Miriam Gutiérrez’s bank statement for the last three years. Note the expense line corresponding to the child allowance authorized by Tomás Herrera before he was sent to military service. Silence fell in the courtroom. Tomás frowned slightly. The lawyer continued. Between July of last year and January of this year, Mrs. Miriam withdrew more than 74,000 pesos from the fund.

However, her expenses show no line item for education, healthcare, or childcare. Instead, there are payments for cosmetics, furniture, and two trips to San Cristóbal de las Casas. Miriam clutched the edge of her seat. Her face drained of color. The prosecutor stood up. He said nothing further, only presenting a copy of the budget breakdown that matched the account entries. So, how does the defendant explain using a fund intended for the care of a minor to cover personal expenses?

Zrenia, the judge asked. Yolanda opened her mouth, but no sound came out. She looked up at Tomás, as if searching for a reaction that might save her, but he remained sitting silently, his hand resting on his daughter’s dress. We don’t just look at actions, the prosecutor concluded, but also at intentions. And the intention here wasn’t to educate, but to exploit. It wasn’t love, it was confinement. Don Pedro lowered his head and murmured something that sounded like a prayer.

Leticia clasped her hands, her eyes watering. She didn’t cry out loud. No one in the courtroom cried. Neither Tomás nor those who knew the story needed tears to understand the pain. After the court deliberations, the presiding judge pronounced the sentence. The defendant, Miriam Gutiérrez, was sentenced to 12 years in prison without parole for the crimes of child abuse, misuse of social protection system funds, and intentional infliction of prolonged psychological harm.

Tomás stood up, didn’t applaud, didn’t bow his head, just picked up the dress and left the room through the front door. On the steps, next to the iron gate, was a small bicycle. Alma was sitting there. She’d been expecting him since early in the morning. Tomás wasn’t surprised. “Are you cold?” he asked. “No, I just wanted to make sure you were the first to leave,” Alma replied without hesitation. Tomás placed the dress in the bike’s basket and then gently ran his hand over her head.

Let’s go home. Yes. Alma didn’t answer, she just nodded. And in the small square in front of the courthouse, no one laughed. No one cried either. But everyone present watched them, a father who didn’t need to win with words and a girl who didn’t have to cry to be heard, because justice sometimes only needs that. They say there are winds that not only pass through roofs, but also blow away what one thought would remain forever.

Tomás knew this wasn’t poetry, but rather the way the elders of San Nicolás del Enino expressed what they had lived through too long to understand. He didn’t go straight home after the trial. He stopped by the old village store, bought two bags of rice, a bunch of vegetables, and a small bag of white chalk. No one asked him why he used the chalk; they just looked at him, nodded, and greeted him. Silence can also be a form of repentance, sometimes more powerful than forgiveness.

Alma waited for him on the porch. She didn’t ask the outcome of the trial, just held out her hands to receive the bags and entered the kitchen as if that day were like any other. Tomás didn’t say anything either. Some things don’t need to be named if one wants to treasure them with one’s heart. The old house still had a foundation. The bricks protruded from the ground as if they were breathing. Tomás removed broken tiles, dismantled rotten timbers, and piled them up behind him. He kept nothing to remember Miriam, not the faded photo frame, nor the high heels that had once stood on his childhood.

Alma, and even less so the flowered curtains, the ones that forced the girl to spy on the world as if she were guilty of existing. He burned them. The fire didn’t burn like in the movies, but the smell of burnt fabric mixed with old ashes made anyone have to look away. Alma approached and sat down next to him without saying a word. After a while, she asked in a low voice, “Dad, can I teach Elisa the alphabet? She still can’t tell D from B.” Tomás didn’t respond immediately.

He looked at the fire, then into his daughter’s eyes, where there were no more tears, only a shyness that was beginning to turn into firmness. He nodded. A slight gesture, but Alma understood it was a promise. Her father would not leave her again. The first class was held on a windy day. Tomás chose a plot of land behind the house where the sun shone gently. With some neighbors, they stuck reeds into the ground, hung a tarp as a roof, and built desks with recycled planks.

No one asked for payment or any terms. One brought a hammer, another brought nails, and another just watched, but the next day left a bottle of sugar water at the entrance. On opening day, five children sat in a row with their hands on the edges of their desks, their eyes wide as if it were summer. Alma stood in front of the bamboo blackboard with a piece of chalk between her fingers as if it were a magic stone. She looked at Tomás, took a deep breath, and then said slowly, “My name is Alma.

I used to live with pigs, but now I live with books. There was soft laughter, murmurs about what a pretty little girl she was. But Tomás discreetly turned away, as if dust had gotten into his eyes. No one named that emotion, but everyone understood it. At noon, when the wind changed direction, a man entered the courtyard. He was wearing an old shirt, faded jeans, and a folded straw hat in his hand. He didn’t knock on the door or go straight to the classroom; he just stood there quietly, as if waiting for an opportunity to return.

Tomás, washing his hands in the backyard, looked up and met that gaze. For a moment, the air stilled. “Are you Don Tomás Herrera?” Zrenia asked the man in a clear but calm voice. “Yes. Who are you looking for? I’m Simón.” That name made Tomás take a few seconds to place him. He studied his face carefully, then his thin, sun-tanned hands with an uncomfortable familiarity. “You’re Miriam’s son.” The man nodded. “I didn’t come to complain about anything; I just want to see Alma, if possible.”

Tomás clenched his fist for a moment, then released it, motioning her inside without showing emotion. Alma was cleaning the blackboard. Seeing the stranger, she instinctively took a step back. Tomás placed his hand on her shoulder as a sign of calm. “This is Simón. He’s Doña Miriam’s son—that is, in a way, your brother.” Alma said nothing. Her eyes showed no fear, just a cautious look, as if looking at a new page, not knowing where to begin.

Simón sat down without interrupting. When Alma returned to the board to write the letter C, he murmured, “My mother abandoned me when I was 3. I don’t remember her face, but I heard she had a daughter at San Nicolás del Enino. I came not to reclaim the past, but only to tell you that you’re not the only one who was left behind.” Alma didn’t turn around, but the cloth trembled for a moment. Tomás remained silent. No one tried to connect anything; they just let that confession exist on its own.

Like an echo between two children who grew up in different crevices of the same wound. In the afternoon, Simón said goodbye. Before leaving, he left a notebook on the table. Whatever she writes, leave it here. I won’t bother you. I just want to know she’s okay. Tomás nodded. There were no hugs or awkward handshakes, just a quiet acknowledgment between two men abandoned by the same woman. Alma sat on the step. The afternoon sun illuminated her soft hair.

He didn’t ask anything, just said, “Dad, how do you spell Simon?” Thomas let out a low but serene laugh. Write it as it sounds. The important thing is that you remember his name. The village elders say that the first wind is always cold, but if there’s fire in the heart, any place can feel warm. Thomas didn’t believe in philosophies, but he did believe in Alma’s small hand, the one that had once been covered in mud and now held the ink to write his future.

And I knew her fire was still burning, silent, but alive. There are children who carry a dark childhood on their shoulders. Not because they made mistakes, but because adults didn’t know how to love properly. In a world where tenderness has become a luxury, sometimes all it takes is a gentle word to open a door that never had a name. No one noticed the old bicycle parked next to La Palma in the school’s backyard.

Simón stood there, silent like his owner. A silent teenager with scars on his hands and eyes that avoided contact. Simón came from a place where no one wanted to talk about it. He wasn’t a good boy, but there was no one to teach him how to be either. When Don Tomás rebuilt his old house to turn it into a classroom, Simón was the first to arrive, not to study, but to observe. He stood outside the fence for three days. On the fourth day, Don Tomás handed him a broom.

He didn’t say anything, just nodded. From then on, Simón didn’t leave. Simón was repairing the tin roof, his hands hardened but steady. Each tile was placed with precision, as if it had never trembled. Don Tomás, down below, held the wooden ladder with both hands. “You need to put in a thinner plank there. The wind was strong last night. It almost blew half the roof off.” He said without looking at him, lifting the plank up. Simón took it without a word.

He was used to receiving orders, but this time it wasn’t an order, it was trust. Under the tree, Alma spread out a cotton blanket. On top of it, a small wooden box contained all sorts of things: threads, old buttons, loose beads, even a piece of broken radio wire. With dedication, she put something together with her hands. Her eyes sparkled every time she managed a perfect knot. Almost at noon, Alma approached quietly. In her hands, a small keychain made of copper wire and carved wood.

In the center, a small piece of leather engraved with the letter S is for you, she said in a low voice. Simon didn’t take it immediately; he looked at it, then at her. There was no fear or distrust in her eyes, only something that closely resembled faith. Finally, he accepted it and nodded slightly. When Alma turned to leave, he heard her soft murmur. “Don’t lose it.” “Yes.” Simon remained motionless for a few seconds. That word, “you,” sank into his chest like a brand.

It had been so long since anyone had called him that. His mother, Miriam herself, whose name today only resonated in the courtroom, used to call him a burden. In the afternoon, Don Tomás spread a paper map on the wooden table in the classroom. They both sat across from it. Red circles marked the areas of the town where there were abandoned children, school dropouts, or those living with relatives in extreme poverty. “I received some money from the government after Miriam’s case came to light,” Tomás said in a calm voice.

“I don’t want to use it for revenge. I want to create a place for children like Alma, like you.” Simón said nothing, but for the first time, he felt someone didn’t see him as a nuisance. “Simón, what do you think if we call it the San Nicolás Support Fund?” Simón nodded. “You buy books, food, I’ll keep the records if you trust me.” Don Tomás smiled faintly. “Of course I trust you. Not since the day you didn’t eat your lunch and instead left it next to that disabled girl’s hut near the stream.”

Simón lowered his gaze without responding. Over the following days, people from the town began arriving at the school. At first, only a few curious parents. Then mothers and grandparents came, bringing rice, notebooks, even a cooked chicken. Don Tomás refused any payment. A charred wooden sign hung at the entrance. “We exchange letters out of trust, no charge.” The children ran around the dirt yard, and Alma laughed every time they called her “Little Teacher.” Some brought puppies, others dragged old wheelbarrows as desks.

For them, this was their first school. That night the moon shone like silver foil. The wind blew gently through the new tiles. Simón stood alone at the wooden table, his notebook open, a small pencil in his hand. The classroom door remained ajar. Don Tomás came in with a glass of water. “You can’t sleep tonight.” Simón nodded without looking up. Don Tomás sat across from him. “I imagine you know what’s going on.”

Simón’s gaze darkened. In the letter he sent from prison, he asked someone to burn down the little school. I read it all. I don’t intend to reply. Nor do I intend to call the police. Simón looked up, and for the first time, his voice sounded firm and sharp. She’s my biological mother, but I don’t owe her anything. Tomás nodded. Whatever you decide to do is your right. I’m not going to pressure you. They were both silent for a while.

The night continued with the faint chirping of crickets surrounding the patio as the moon cast its light over the old wooden table. Simón put the notebook in the drawer, locked it, and then took the keychain Alma had made for him out of his pocket. He showed it to Tomás and said in a low voice, “I don’t keep it because it’s pretty. I keep it because it was the first time someone called me a member of the family.” Tomás didn’t respond; he just patted him gently on the shoulder.

In every person’s life, there comes a moment when they understand: blood doesn’t decide everything, but an outstretched hand at the right moment can save a soul, and that soul will one day be the one who keeps the flame of goodness alive so that it never goes out. The door to the little school remained open all night. The wind blew through the cracks in the boards, but the light remained. It didn’t come from any light bulb, but from things that never had names.

No one noticed that the flowers in front of Tomás’s house had changed. They no longer looked wilted like last year, but they didn’t shine with exaggerated ostentation either. The purple petals opened in small clusters, falling here and there onto the baked earth. To one side, the rows of tender corn, now the size of an adult’s chest, were beginning to show their first ears, heralding a promising harvest. Inside the house, the old pendulum clock hanging on the wall no longer kept time with the same consistency.

Its needle would often tremble and retreat just half a step, as if it too wanted to pause a moment to preserve the moments lived under that roof. Alma said that clock was like her father’s time. It doesn’t run fast, it leaves no one behind. That morning began with the faint sound of ceramic plates. Simón carefully cleaned each wooden spoon while Alma organized the day’s homework with a pencil. At the table, Tomás carefully folded an invitation letter from the neighboring town.

Then he tucked it away in a hardcover notebook. The letter invited him to receive an honorary recognition, a diploma for his work in educational development in rural areas, along with a small monetary reward. But Tomás didn’t respond. Instead, he sat at the bamboo table and wrote another letter addressed to a small youth association in Veracruz who had once expressed their desire to teach poor children. We don’t need diplomas; we need people capable of looking a child in the eye and understanding that they deserve to be heard.

Outside, the children had already gathered. From a distance, their voices calling to one another could be heard, the scraping of sandals on the ground, laughter mixed with barking. The Herreras’ backyard was no longer just a place to learn letters, but a refuge where poor children once again felt like they belonged. Each one came with their own story, but they all shared something. No one wanted to be forgotten. Alma stood in front of the blackboard with a piece of worn white chalk and said in a clear, sweet voice, “Today we are going to learn the letter S.”

That of a sigh and also of solidarity. A boy raised his hand. Why does solidarity begin with a sigh, teacher? She hesitated for a moment and then smiled. Because sometimes we only learn to love each other after having gone through great sadness. Tomás came out of the house wearing a faded old shirt and holding a basket of freshly picked mangoes. He left it on the bamboo table. He didn’t interrupt his daughter’s class; he just sat and listened from the back.

Don Pedro, the old man who sold seeds, also stopped by that day. He sat at the edge of the courtyard chewing a piece of sugarcane, his eyes half-closed as if dozing. But when Alma finished reciting a poem by Sorjuana, he was the one who applauded first. “The girl reads like water passing through stones,” he murmured. So smoothly that one doesn’t even feel the scars. Halfway through the class, Simón placed a wooden doll he had made himself at the front of the room.

Simón, who had previously lived in silence, was now the first to speak in the mornings, the one who ushered in the start of classes with a drum. Tomás didn’t hide his pride. He turned to Doña Clotilde, who often brought sweet bread to share, and whispered, “Sometimes I think children don’t need us to teach them so much; they just need to not be afraid.” The old woman nodded, smoothing her shawl. No one can grow if they wake up every morning not knowing where they’ll eat or who they’ll learn with.

That night, the light from the kinqué cast flickering shadows on the ceiling. Tomás sat between Alma and Simón, while two other children sat on the opposite side of the table, each clutching a bowl of vegetable soup. They didn’t talk about the past. No one mentioned Miriam. No one asked Tomás about the army, the war, or that night that changed their lives. All of that remained behind a now-closed door. Alma served her father a piece of tortilla with egg.

Simon told how one of the hens had laid a double egg. A girl said, “When I grow up, I’m going to open a school with green chalkboards, fans, and even a corner for the puppies to sleep under the desks.” Tomas burst out laughing. “Just don’t let the mice learn first, or they’ll take all the notebooks.” The laughter sounded soft, as if the injuries had never existed. A week later, the inauguration of the new school year was celebrated.

Alma took a small microphone donated by the town and opened the ceremony by singing a Mexican lullaby. Her voice wasn’t powerful, but it was sweet and steady, like a cactus blooming on a rock. Tomás came to the front after the song. He stood up straight with a crumpled sheet of paper in his hand, but he didn’t read it right away. I was once asked what was the most painful thing after the war. I thought it was the wounds, but it wasn’t.

The most painful thing was coming back and seeing my daughter being treated like garbage in her own home. She paused, looking around the classroom at the children sitting on the floor with transparent but mature eyes. Today I’m here to show the opposite, to prove that a child, even after being thrown into a pigsty, can teach others with kindness. Thank you for not abandoning my daughter. Thank you for helping me believe in people again.

The applause wasn’t thunderous, but it was profound. At that moment, Tomás looked at Alma. In the afternoon, when all the children had left, Tomás was tidying the benches. Alma was hanging the drawings again on a rope stretched between two mango trees. One showed a girl surrounded by a circle of other children, with writing below in purple ink. One can be thrown into a pigsty, but no one has the right to decide a child’s worth.

Tomás stared at the drawing, his gaze lost in thought. Then he said, as if speaking to himself, “There is no greater pain than seeing your daughter forgotten, but there is also no greater miracle than seeing her rise and show the world how to remember her with kindness.” Alma didn’t respond; she just remained standing. She knew that from that moment on, the truly old had been buried, and what would emerge from there would be a future with wind, sun, and the voices of children calling to each other to learn under the trees.

Perhaps we’ve all heard a painful story about children rejected by their own families, but this story doesn’t dwell on the pain. It’s proof that patience, compassion, and true love can heal even the deepest wounds. Tomás didn’t choose violence, he didn’t cry out for justice, he simply pulled his daughter from the mire of cruelty and started anew, brick by brick, letter by letter, glance by glance, and with that perseverance, he forced an entire community to reflect and change.

Those who caused harm ultimately paid for it, and those who chose love were rewarded with the most precious thing: peace. Have you also met an abandoned child? Have you ever witnessed a parent who gave everything in silence? Do you think you would have the courage to stand on the side of the light? What do you think about the way Tomás chose to protect his daughter? If you were in his shoes, you would act the same way. And if you’re a parent, grandparent, or simply an adult, what do you think is the most important thing to ensure a child doesn’t feel forgotten?