Like someone writing while afraid of being discovered.
“Arturo says the girls ruined his life.”
“Today he hid my car keys so I couldn’t go to the doctor.”
“They changed my work schedule again. Human Resources said it came from management.”
“Arturo works in Human Resources.”
A chill crawled down my spine.
Rosa and Arturo worked at the same company. She handled administration. He worked in Human Resources, meaning he had control over schedules, leave requests, and internal reports.
I always believed he took care of her.
She often told me she felt exhausted. That her chest hurt. That she couldn’t sleep anymore.
I begged her to stay with me for a while, but she always answered:
“I don’t want my daughters growing up without their father.”
I kept reading.
“They denied my medical leave again.”
“Arturo said if I died, he’d finally feel free.”
“Mariela doesn’t want girls around. Arturo said he would solve that problem.”
I slowly looked up.
“Who’s Mariela?”
Renata answered quietly.
“The woman from the white van.”
Abril started crying.
“Dad called her ‘my love’ even when Mom was nearby.”
Lucía connected the USB drive to my computer.
The folder contained screenshots, emails, audio recordings, and photos of documents.
In one recording, Arturo’s voice cut through the speakers coldly:
“Stop acting dramatic, Rosa. If you’re so miserable, then maybe stop making everyone else miserable too.”
Another recording captured a woman laughing.
“But without the girls, Arturo. I’m not becoming somebody’s stepmother.”
Arturo answered calmly:
“Relax. First I’ll get rid of Rosa. Then I’ll figure out where to dump the little brats.”
Renata covered her ears.
I had to walk outside before I lost control completely.
The dawn smelled of wet dirt and fresh tortillas from a nearby house already preparing breakfast.
I imagined my daughter carrying all that pain alone.
Her tired eyes.
Her trembling hands.
Her final phone call to me.
“Dad… I’m so tired. But I don’t want you to worry.”
The next morning, I brought everything to a lawyer recommended by an old friend.
Her name was Beatriz Salgado.
She reviewed every document carefully without interrupting. When she finally closed the notebook, her expression had changed completely.
“Don Julián,” she said softly, “this changes everything. Custody. Criminal charges. Workplace misconduct. But first, we protect the girls.”
“And Arturo?”
“He must not realize how much evidence we have.”
For weeks, we stayed quiet.
Social services intervened — but not the way Arturo expected.
