At 2:51, my phone started ringing nonstop.
I did not answer.
They called thirteen times in one hour.
Then they called Marcos’s workplace.
He notified Human Resources and blocked the numbers.
I thought they would stop at phone calls.
I was wrong.
That same Friday, at 5:47, they pounded on the apartment door with brutal force. It was not a normal knock. It was the pounding of someone convinced they had the right to enter.
I looked through the peephole.
It was my father.
His face was red, his shirt open at the collar, and he had that authoritarian expression that had paralyzed me so many times as a child.
“Sara, open the door,” he shouted. “Do not do anything stupid.”
Lía looked up from the table where she was coloring.
“Who is it, Mommy?”
