My husband’s five-year-old daughter had barely eaten since moving in with us. “I’m sorry, Mom… I’m not hungry,” she would repeat to me night after night. Her plate was always left untouched. My husband would just say, “She’ll get used to it.” But one night, while he was away on a business trip, she said to me, “Mom… I need to tell you something.” As soon as I heard her words, I called the police immediately.
When I married Javier and moved with him to Valencia, his five-year-old daughter, Lucía, came to live with us permanently. She was a shy girl with large, dark eyes that seemed to observe everything with a mixture of curiosity and caution. From the first day, I noticed something strange: at mealtimes, she never ate a thing.
I would make omelets, baked rice, lentils, croquettes—dishes that any child would normally eat with gusto. But she would simply move her fork, lower her gaze, and murmur:
“Sorry, Mommy… I’m not hungry.”
That word—Mommy—surprised me every time; it was sweet, but it carried a hidden weight. I smiled at her, tried not to pressure her, and made an effort to create a safe environment. But the situation remained the same. Her plate remained untouched night after night, and the only thing she managed to eat was a glass of milk in the morning.
I spoke with Javier on several occasions.
“Javi, something’s not right. It’s not normal that she’s not eating anything. She’s too thin,” I told him one night.
He sighed as if he’d had that conversation too many times before.
“She’ll get used to it. It was worse with her biological mother. Give her time.”
There was something in his tone that didn’t convince me, a mixture of weariness and avoidance. But I didn’t press the issue; I thought maybe she needed to adjust.
A week later, Javier had to travel to Madrid for work for three days. That first night alone, while I was cleaning the kitchen, I heard soft footsteps behind me. It was Lucía, her pajamas wrinkled and with a serious expression I’d never seen on her little face.
“Can’t you sleep, sweetheart?” I asked, crouching down.
She shook her head, clutching her stuffed animal to her chest. Her lips were trembling.
“Mom… I need to tell you something.”
Those words chilled me to the bone. I picked her up and we sat down on the sofa. She looked around, as if making sure no one else was there, and then whispered something that took my breath away.
Such a short, fragile, devastating sentence… I immediately stood up, trembling, and went straight to the phone.
“This can’t wait,” I thought as I dialed.
When the police answered, my voice barely came out.
“I’m… I’m a little girl’s stepmother. And my stepdaughter just told me something very serious.”
The officer asked me to explain, but I could barely speak. Lucía was still by my side, holding me tightly.
Then the girl, with barely a whisper, repeated what she had just confessed.
And upon hearing it, the officer said something that made my heart leap.
“Ma’am… stay in a safe place. We’ve already dispatched a patrol car.”
The patrol car arrived in less than ten minutes. Ten minutes that felt like an eternity. During that time, I didn’t let go of Lucía for a second. I wrapped her in a blanket and we sat on the sofa, the warm light of the living room contrasting sharply with the feeling that the world had just crumbled beneath our feet.
The police entered quietly, without any sudden movements, as if they already knew that any abrupt noise could shatter what little remained of that little girl’s trust. An officer with curly hair knelt beside us.
“Hi, sweetheart. I’m Clara. Can I sit with you?” she asked in a voice so gentle that even I felt a small sense of relief.
Lucía nodded slightly.
Clara managed to get her to repeat what she had told me: that someone had taught her not to eat when she “misbehaved,” that it was “better that way,” that “good girls don’t ask for food.” She didn’t name names. She didn’t point the finger at anyone directly. But the implication was obvious, and it broke my heart to hear her say it again.
The officer took notes, and when she finished, she looked at me seriously.
“We’re going to take you to the hospital so a pediatrician can examine her. She doesn’t seem to be in immediate danger, but she does need attention. Besides, we can talk to her more calmly there.”
I agreed without thinking. I packed a small backpack with some clothes and Lucía’s stuffed animal, the only thing that seemed to give her any comfort.
At the pediatric emergency room of La Fe Hospital, they took us to a private room. A young doctor examined the girl gently. His words were a slap of reality:
“She’s malnourished, but not critically. However, what’s worrying is that she doesn’t show normal eating habits for her age. It’s something learned, not spontaneous.”
The officers took statements while Lucía fell asleep, exhausted. I tried to answer, although every word made me feel more and more guilty. How could I not have seen it before? How could I not have insisted?
When they finished, Clara took me aside.
—We know this is hard, but what you did today may have saved his life.
“And Javier?” I asked, a lump forming in my throat. “Do you think…?”
Clara sighed.
“We don’t know everything yet. But there are indications that someone in his previous life used food as a form of punishment. He may have known… or he may not have.”
My phone rang: a message from Javier saying he had arrived at his hotel in Madrid. He knew nothing about what had happened.
The police advised me not to tell him anything for the time being.
We spent the night under observation. The next morning, a child psychologist arrived and spoke with Lucía for a long time. I didn’t understand everything she said, but enough to feel a chill: there was fear, conditioning, and secrets kept for far too long.
And then, just when I thought I had heard everything, the psychologist left the room, her face serious.
“I need to talk to you. Lucía has just revealed something else… something that changes everything.”
The psychologist led me to a small room next to the emergency room. Her hands were clasped together, like someone preparing to deliver inevitably painful news.
“Your stepdaughter said that…” she took a breath, “…that it was her biological mother who punished her by withholding food. But she also said something about Javier.”
My throat tightened.
“What did she say?”
“That he knew what was happening. That he saw her crying, that he tried to secretly hide food from her… but that, according to the girl, he told her that ‘she shouldn’t interfere,’ that ‘her mother knew what she was doing.'”
I froze. That didn’t necessarily mean that he had been involved… but it did mean that he hadn’t done anything. Nothing.
“Are you sure?” I asked, my voice breaking.
“Children her age can confuse details, but they don’t create these kinds of patterns out of thin air. And most importantly: she’s saying this out of fear. Fear of disappointing someone. Fear of being punished again.”
Javier’s words echoed in my head: “She’ll get used to it.”
Now they sounded terribly different.
The police requested a formal interview with him. When they called him, I was told, he was first surprised, then indignant, and finally nervous. He admitted that the girl’s mother had “harsh” methods, but insisted that he “never imagined it was so serious.”
The officers weren’t convinced.
For me, on the other hand, it broke my heart to realize that he did know… and did nothing.
That night, back home, while I was preparing a mild broth for Lucía, she hugged me from behind.
“Can I eat this?” she asked.
“Of course, darling,” I replied, holding back tears. “You can always eat in this house.”
The integration was slow. It took weeks for her to eat without asking permission, months for her to stop apologizing before each bite. But every step forward was a victory. The psychologist accompanied us throughout the entire process, and the police continued their investigation.
Finally, a judge issued temporary protective measures for Lucía. Final rulings were still pending, but for the first time, the little girl was truly safe.
One afternoon, while we were playing in the living room, she looked at me with a calm expression, unlike any I had ever seen before.
“Mom… thank you for listening to me that day.”
My heart melted.
“I will always listen to you. Always.”
Javier’s case continued its legal course, and although the process was difficult, I understood that making that call was the right decision. Not only as an adult, but as the person Lucía needed me to be.
And now, if you’ve read this far, I’d like to ask you something:
Would you like me to write a sequel? Perhaps from Lucía’s point of view, from Javier’s, or even an epilogue set years later?
Your interaction will help the story continue to grow.