Chapter 3 - WHAT ISABELLA THOUGHT I KNEW
I ordered food from a restaurant in town.
I did not allow Beatriz to prepare dinner.
I did not allow Isabella to help.
The three of us sat at the long kitchen table.
Isabella had changed into soft pajamas.
I had treated her hands with antiseptic cream and covered the worst blisters.
She barely touched her food.
Every time her fork made noise against the plate, she glanced at Beatriz.
Finally I moved my chair beside her.
“You are not in trouble.”
she nodded.
“You keep saying that.”
I smiled sadly.
“I’ll keep saying it until you believe me.”
Beatriz pushed her plate away.
“This is absurd.”
I ignored her.
“Isabella, when did Marta leave?”
My daughter looked down.
“She didn’t leave.”
Beatriz froze.
I remained still.
“What happened?”
I asked.
“Beatriz told her to go.”
“When?”
“After Marta yelled.”
“Yelled about what?”
Isabella swallowed.
“Me.”
Beatriz stood.
“That is enough.”
“Sit down.”
I said.
She stared at me.
I repeated it.
“Sit down.”
She did.
I turned back to Isabella.
“What did Marta say?”
“She said I wasn’t a servant.”
My chest tightened.
“What happened after that?”
“Beatriz told her she was fired.”
“And Lucia?”
“She left too.”
“Why?”
“Because she gave me lunch.”
For a moment, I thought I had misheard.
“What do you mean?”
Isabella’s eyes filled.
“Beatriz said I didn’t finish cleaning the guest bathroom.”
“So I couldn’t eat until I finished.”
“Lucia gave me a sandwich.”
“Then Beatriz got mad.”
My hands went cold.
Across the table, Beatriz whispered,
“She is twisting everything.”
I looked at her.
“She is eight years old.”
“Children lie.”
“So do adults.”
She fell silent.
I asked Isabella about our video calls.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
She looked confused.
“I thought you knew.”
That sentence hurt more than anything else.
“Why would you think that?”
“Beatriz said you told her.”
“Told her what?”
“That I needed to stop acting like a baby.”
My throat tightened.
“She said you wanted me to learn how real people work.”
“I never said that.”
Isabella stared at me.
“I know now.”
The words were barely audible.
I reached for her hand.
She let me hold it.
Then she told me about the phone.
Beatriz kept Isabella’s tablet except during scheduled calls with me.
She stood behind the camera.
Sometimes she held written notes.
GOOD SCHOOL.
GOOD FOOD.
EVERYTHING FINE.
If Isabella said anything else, Beatriz ended the call.
I remembered every frozen screen.
Every excuse about bad Internet.
Every time Isabella looked slightly to the side before answering.
I had seen the signs.
I had simply interpreted them through trust.
Then Isabella said,
“She said you were too busy building hotels to listen.”
My eyes burned.
“Isabella.”
“I was never too busy for you.”
She began crying.
Quietly.
“I didn’t want you to come home because of me.”
“I thought you would lose money.”
I pulled her into my arms.
“No building on earth matters more than you.”
Across the table, Beatriz stood again.
“I’m not staying for this performance.”
She walked toward the hallway.
Then Isabella whispered,
“Dad.”
“Yes?”
“There’s a phone under my bed.”
I looked at her.
“Whose?”
She glanced toward the doorway.
“I took it from Beatriz.”
“She doesn’t know.”
“What’s on it?”
May you like
Isabella’s voice trembled.
“The man she kisses when you’re gone.”
