I first noticed it on the second night Lucía lived with us, when the suitcases were still half-open in the hallway and the newness of everything made the apartment feel like a hotel. I had cooked something safe—soft rice with chicken, a little olive oil, nothing spicy, nothing that would overwhelm a five-year-old who’d just moved cities. I set her plate in front of her with a bright smile and the kind of gentle cheer adults use when they’re trying not to look nervous. Lucía sat perfectly still, back straight, hands folded in her lap like she’d been trained for a photograph.
She stared at the food as if it might speak first. When I encouraged her to take a bite, she didn’t pout or push the plate away the way many children do. She just lowered her eyes and delivered the same line she would repeat night after night, almost like a prayer: “I’m sorry, Mom… I’m not hungry.” The “Mom” caught me off guard. I wasn’t her mother. I hadn’t earned that title. But it didn’t sound like affection so much as it sounded like compliance—something she’d learned was expected of her.
