“No one important, my love. Keep drawing.”
But my father hit the door again, harder.
“I know you are in there!”
Lía dropped her crayon. She pressed herself against my leg.
I called 911.
“There is a person outside my home refusing to leave,” I said. “My daughter is scared.”
While I was talking to the operator, I texted Marcos. He left work immediately.
The police car arrived within minutes, though to me it felt like hours. The officers spoke with my father in the hallway. First I heard him justifying himself. Then raising his voice. Then lowering it when he realized he was not going to get away with it.
When they finally knocked and identified themselves, I opened the door.
A female officer explained that they had removed him from the building and given him a formal warning. She recommended that I request a restraining order and also file the report over the car if they did not return it.
That night, Lía had nightmares.
She woke up crying, saying that “the angry man” wanted to come in.
I sat beside her, held her, and told her the only thing I cared that she understood:
“You did nothing wrong. None of this is your fault.”
The hearing for the order was the following week. Jennifer arrived with everything organized: bank records, messages, call history, the police report, proof that my mother had even tried to call the kindergarten days earlier pretending Lía had a medical appointment so she could pick her up early.
When I told Marcos, he went pale.
My parents went to the hearing along with Daniel. Rebeca also went, barely looking at me, ashamed.
The judge was a woman around sixty with a stern face and little patience. She heard everything. She let Jennifer present each piece of evidence precisely. Then she gave my parents the chance to speak.
