The house that once vibrated with laughter, songs, and the smell of homemade bread now smells of paint on the walls, broken toys, and pent-up tears. My daughters, God, my daughters. Mariana, the eldest, is 12 years old and has the sharpest mind I’ve ever seen in a child; she leads her sisters as if they were a small army waging war against the world.
She was the one who told me on the day of her mother’s funeral, “No woman will ever take her place, Dad. No one.” Since then, every nanny who comes in becomes an enemy to be defeated. Then there are the twins, Beatriz and Bianca, 6 years old. Two little girls who smile as they plot. They put fake insects in shoes, block doors with glue, hide food in drawers.
