When a four-year-old said, “My grandfather, my mother will die.”

When Javier grabbed my hair and dragged me through the hallway, I realized that that night would not end like the previous nights. It’s no longer just screaming or batches. I felt a severe blow when he threw me into the wall, and before I could protect myself, I heard a terrible cracking sound in my right leg. The pain was so severe that he took my breath away. I fell to the ground shaking, while he kept yelling at me that everything that happened was my fault, and that I was the one who caused it.
Our four-year-old daughter, Lucia, was standing at the bedroom door, hugging her doll. Her eyes were wide, full of fear. I knew Javier could get more violent if he saw her crying, so I did the only thing that came to my mind. I raised my hand hard and knocked the ground twice with my fingers. That was our secret signal, which we had trained for as if it were a game.

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