My name is Tomás Medina, I am 43 years old and for a long time I believed that being a good father meant paying the rent, filling the fridge and coming home with some money every two weeks.
My wife, Veronica, worked at a dental clinic. I would leave before dawn and return when the house already smelled of reheated dinner. Our daughter, Lucia, was 15 years old and lately seemed to live behind a closed door.
I used to say, "It's age."
He ate very little. He answered with short sentences. He shut himself away without music, without calls, without laughing like before. But I always found an excuse not to see too much.
That night I told Veronica what the neighbor had said. She put her bag down on the couch and sighed.
"People who are alone hear things. Don't pay any attention, Tomás."
I wanted to believe him. It was easier.
But two days later, Doña Estela came waiting for me again.
"She screamed even louder today," she told me, her face pale. "She kept saying, 'Please, just leave me alone.' You need to check."
That night I went up to Lucia's room. She was sitting on her bed, with headphones on, looking at her cell phone.
—Is everything alright, daughter?
—Yes, Dad. Everything's normal. History
“Normal.” That word started to sound like a lie to me.
