Chapter 3 The scar on Isabelita's forehead

Morning opened timidly over the city, with the sky still covered in a faint mist that made everything slower, more introspective. Amelia walked with a determined step along the cobblestone street that led to the university residence. In her hand, she held a scarf she had knitted herself-for Isabelita-and in her heart, a restlessness that had accompanied her for entire nights. She couldn't bear the wait, the silence, the gnawing intuition that something wasn't right. Mothers feel. Mothers know.

The front doorbell rang dryly, without an echo. For a few seconds, there was no answer. But Amelia wasn't about to leave.

When the door finally opened, Isabelita appeared, her face half-sleepy, her hair disheveled, and her soul on the defensive. She tried to smile, but her eyes betrayed her.

"Amelia... What are you doing here so early?"

Amelia studied her closely. Her sister's face had a serene beauty, marked by youth and fatigue. But there, almost hidden by a lock of hair, was the scar. Small. Delicate. But impossible to ignore for a woman who had given her life.

"I needed to see you," Amelia said, entering without waiting for permission. "And I'm not going to turn a blind eye. I know you're carrying something alone... and I'm not going to allow that anymore."

Isabelita closed the door silently, her breath bated. Suddenly, the entire facade shook.

Flashback: The Night of the Attack

Isabelita walked alone down the poorly lit hallway of the residence. It was almost eleven at night, and she was returning from the library, her head full of notes and her shoulders tense from the day. She had never liked that corridor. Too narrow. Too quiet.

She heard footsteps. First she hesitated. Then she quickened her pace.

"Isabelita," a harsh voice whispered behind her.

When she turned around, it was too late. A shadow pushed her against the wall. She tried to scream, but fear gripped her like an invisible vice. She wanted to run, but her body froze. Then came the blow. Dull. Precise. The world spun and her forehead hit the floor.

When she woke up, she was alone. It had all happened in seconds. But for her, the wound lasted for weeks.

She didn't want to complain. Or tell anyone. She felt like opening her mouth would invoke more darkness. She covered the scar with her hair, with excuses, with silences. And the guilt... the guilt slowly wore her down.

The reunion

Amelia looked around the room. Everything was clean, meticulously organized, as if Isabelita's internal disorder needed external compensation.

They sat at the small table by the window. Amelia placed her hands on the surface, open. Offering, not demanding.

"You know I didn't come to judge you, right?" she said softly.

Isabelita nodded without looking at her. She played with the rim of an empty cup, her nails bitten, her lips dry.

"I thought I could handle it. That if I ignored it, it would go away," she whispered.

The sentence fell like a broken confession.

"What happened, my love?"

Silence. Shaky breaths. A single tear trickled down Isabelita's face. And then, in a low but firm voice, she began to speak. Of the attack. Of the paralyzing fear. Of the shadow. Of the blow. Of the shame. Of the rage. Of the scar.

Amelia didn't interrupt her. She listened with shining eyes, holding back her own pain so as not to take away from her sister's. She felt her blood boil. Anger-clean, protective-began to rise from deep within her. Not against Isabelita. But against the world that still allowed its daughters to be vulnerable to so much. When Isabelita finished speaking, she seemed lighter. Tired, but less alone.

"You didn't tell me because you thought I would worry," Amelia said with a sad half-smile. "But you know what? I'd rather be worried with you than at peace without you."

The Truth Behind Anger

"You're not alone, Isabelita," Amelia continued, taking her hands. "You never have been. It hurts me to think that you've carried this without support. But it hurts me more that you felt you had to do it."

Isabelita pressed her lips together. The guilt was still there, lurking.

"I felt like I was failing them. That I couldn't be weak. That if I told anyone... everything would fall apart. As if admitting it would make me less strong."

"Less strong?" Amelia repeated tenderly. "My love... there is no greater strength than that which is needed to move forward after something like this. That scar isn't a defeat. It's your medal." It's the sign that you survived.

Isabelita burst into tears. But this time, it wasn't a broken cry. It was a release. A "finally." A "I don't have to carry it alone anymore."

Amelia wrapped her arms around her. She squeezed. She held. She held. They both cried a little more. And then they just breathed together.

A promise between sisters

Amelia didn't stay much longer. She knew that sometimes healing begins when you leave space. But before leaving, she paused in the doorway. Isabelita watched her, still sitting in bed, as if she were the little girl who had once been afraid of the dark.

"I promise you we'll be okay," Amelia said softly. "That this story won't mark you by what they did to you... but by how you came out of it."

Isabelita stood up. She walked over to her sister. She hugged her tightly.

"Thank you for coming," she murmured, her forehead resting on her shoulder. "Thank you for not leaving me alone, even though I didn't ask for it."

"You don't have to ask me to love you. That's already been done."

When Amelia stepped outside, the sun was beginning to dissipate the fog. She walked more slowly, breathing deeply, now carrying not only her worry, but the certainty that love-that fierce love-was stronger than fear.

Meanwhile, at home, Gabriel tossed and turned in his bed, restless, and Tomás mumbled meaningless words in his sleep. They were still children, but Amelia knew the coming storm would reach them too. So that morning she made a promise to herself:

"I will bring truth to every wound. Light to every fear. A hug to every silence."

And although the scar on Isabelita's forehead would never disappear, at least now she would be lighter.

More hers.

Freer.