“My daughter and granddaughter weren’t missing… they were sleeping on a park bench,"s" as if they had no family.”
That’s what broke me inside that Sunday morning, when I left Mass at the San José parish in Puebla, my knees swollen and my shopping bag hanging from my arm.
I, Mercedes Rojas, a retired nurse from the
I, Mercedes Rojas, a retired nurse from the Mexican Social Security Institute (IMSS), had seen pain all my life, but nothing prepared me for finding Lucía, my only daughter, hugging Sofía under an old blanket, next to the kiosk.
Sofia was six years old. A little girl who, until recently, would arrive at my house with pink ribbons in her hair, her uniform ironed, and a laugh that filled the kitchen. That day, her shoes were dirty, her hair tangled, and her lips chapped from the cold.
—Mom… —Lucía whispered when she saw me.
May be an image of child
It wasn’t shame that was in her eyes. It was defeat.
I approached slowly, as if any movement could break them further.
—What happened? Where’s your apartment? Where’s the car I gave you?
Lucia pressed Sofia against her chest.
—Adrián kicked us out, Mom. He and his family kept everything.
I felt the blood rushing to my head.
