The April heat beat down on the walls of the social housing complex with a suffocating fury, but Valeria, barely 15 years old, wore a thick, gray sweatshirt, zipped up to her neck.
The girl shuffled along the chipped tile floor, her gaze fixed on the ground, dark circles under her eyes contrasting sharply with the ghostly pallor of her face. For four weeks, the cheerful girl who used to play soccer on the neighborhood’s dirt fields and laugh uproariously at the videos on her cell phone had vanished.
In her place remained a ghost who vomited her breakfast, felt dizzy when she tried to get out of bed, and cried silently when she thought no one could hear her.
Rebeca, his mother, noticed it from day one. True mothers have a radar for their children’s pain, an instinct that pierces their hearts.
One night, while serving dinner in the small kitchen lit by a single flickering bulb, Rebeca glanced at her husband. Ernesto sat at the table, devouring a plate of beans with chorizo, his eyes glued to the soccer game playing on the small television.
“Valeria doesn’t look well at all, Ernesto,” Rebeca said, nervously wiping her hands on her apron. “She’s been like this for four weeks now. She’s not eating, her stomach hurts a lot. We need to take her to get checked out.”
Ernesto didn’t even look up from his plate. He chewed slowly, swallowed, and let out a snort full of contempt.
“She’s exaggerating. At 15, everything hurts, everything tires them out, and they use everything to get attention. She probably doesn’t want to go to school or she had a fight with her friends.”
“She’s not faking it, Ernesto. I hear her crying in the early morning.”
