12/31/2025
A father returns from the battlefield and finds his daughter sleeping in a pigsty. No one expected his reactionâŠ
Ramiro Salgado was glued to the bus window as if the glass could hold up his chest. Outside, the north stretched out in a ribbon of red earth, prickly pear cacti like guardians, and a harsh sun that didn't ask permission. Between his knees rested a dusty backpack, folded with the discipline of four years in the barracks. In his right hand, he clutched a piece of paper so worn that the ink looked like ash.
It was a letter. One of many.
He was rereading it for the third time since leaving the base, and even then, the ending still made his throat tighten:
Dad, I didn't have breakfast today. Mama Maria said there are no more eggs in the house. I saw the woman who sells them go by, but I didn't ask anything because when I do, they leave me outside in the yard. I'm writing so that when you get back, you can knock on the back door, because the front one is locked.
The letters were crooked, slanted as if the girl were writing in secret, careful not to make a sound. Ramiro swallowed. He didn't remember receiving a single letter in that handwriting while he was away. Not one. Only official letters, notifications, flyers, and empty congratulations.
Until Dr. JuliĂĄn, an old friend of his father's, sent him a package by courier with a brief note: "Read these before you return."
The driver, an older man with a gray mustache and mechanic's hands, broke the silence without turning around.
"You're in the military, aren't you?"
Ramiro put the papers back in the envelope, as if they were an animal he could bite.
"Yes⊠I just got back."
The driver nodded and continued driving down the dirt road that descended into the valley. A few minutes passed. The radio blared an old song about closed doors and someone crying behind them.
As they approached the rusty sign that read âSan NicolĂĄs del Valle,â the driver muttered, almost like someone commenting on the weather:
âThey say a girl from around here⊠they had her locked in the pigpen for a week. Without food. How awfulâŠâ he hissed. âBut you know how it is in this town, people gossip.â
Ramiro felt his blood rush to his ears.
âWhich girl?â he asked, careful not to break his voice.
The driver glanced at him in the rearview mirror and shrugged.
âOne who lives at the Salgadosâ house⊠or something like that. They exaggerate, though. Sometimes âlocking her upâ just means leaving her in the yard.â
Ramiro didnât answer. His fingers dug into the paper inside the envelope. Outside, the town appeared as a cluster of low houses with tin roofs, dust floating in the air as if everything were suspended. The bus stopped in an open field. Ramiro went downstairs with his backpack slung over his shoulder and the envelope pressed against his heart.
On his way home, he picked up a small white pebble from the ground and put it in his pocket. He didn't know why. Maybe to remind himself that he was awake.
The house where he had lived with LucĂa, his wife, no longer smelled of them. He knew it before he even touched it: the cheap perfume escaped through the cracks like a warning. The facade was painted a new white, too clean to be true. The windows gleamed. The wedding photo that had once hung in the living room was gone. Even the hibiscus that LucĂa had planted near the entrance had been cut back, as if someone had wanted to erase its color.
The front door was locked.
Ramiro walked around the house through the narrow hallway, just as the letter had instructed. The back gate was still there, rusted, and the hinge squeaked when he pushed it. That sound hurt him, as if the metal were groaning at what it had seen.
The patio was dry. A couple of prickly pear cacti, some stones, and in the background, the pigpen covered with an old tarp. Then he heard the first shout:
"Get up! You're useless! You can't even sweep!"
Then, a thud: leather against skin.
A muffled whimper, so small that Ramiro's knees buckled inward.
He ran.
He ripped the tarp off in one swift motion.
And there she was.His daughter, Ana, curled up on dirty straw, her nightgown torn at the shoulder, her heels covered in scabs, and her hair matted with dust. She wasn't crying; she was just staring with large, empty eyes, as if she'd already run out of time to cry. In front of her stood MarĂa, the woman Ramiro had left "to take care of the girl while he worked," a belt in her hand, her face red with rage.
MarĂa kicked the straw to corner her.
âWithout your mother, you should be living with animals!â he spat.
Ramiro stood motionless for a second. Not because he didnât know what to do, but because what he saw was more brutal than any training camp. Even so, his body responded without a scream.
He opened the wooden latch almost silently. He took a step. Then another. His shadow filled the pigpen.
Ana looked up.
And froze.
As if her brain didnât dare to believe.
The smell of her fatherâearth, sweat, old metalâreached her before words. Ana tried to stand and stumbled, but Ramiro was already there. He lifted her carefully, as he had lifted himself.to something that has been deliberately torn.
Ana clung to his shirt as if it were a life preserver.
"Dad...?" she whispered. "Is it really you?"
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