I waited until Daniela fell asleep. Her phone was on the kitchen table, plugged into the charger. I knew the password because it was her grandmother’s birthday. I opened it, feeling guilty, and checked her messages.
I didn’t find any conversations with unknown men or references to drugs. Most were messages from schoolmates. But there was a saved chat with the name “Valentina.” In the last conversations, my daughter was asking if she had eaten, if the little one had a fever, and if anyone had seen her go out.
One of the messages said:
“Don’t worry. My mom works until six. You can stay there during the day. Just don’t make any noise.”
Another one said:
I felt a chill.
I kept reading. Valentina was a fifteen-year-old classmate. From the messages, I understood that she was hiding with a small child and that she was afraid a man would find her. I didn’t know who that man was or why my daughter was helping her hide in our house.
I went upstairs and opened Daniela’s door with the emergency key I kept in a drawer. She woke up startled.
—Mom, what are you doing?
I turned on the light and looked around. The room seemed normal. The bed, the desk, and the clothes were all in their place. Then I noticed the closet. A blanket was sticking out from under the doors.
I approached as Daniela got out of bed.
“Don’t do it,” he pleaded.
I opened the closet.
There, seated on some pillows, was a thin teenager with tears streaming down her face. She held a child of about two years old in her arms. The little boy had a blanket wrapped around his body and clutched a toy car to his chest
