“If you feel you are in danger,” the lawyer added, “or if you feel Mr. Manuel is in immediate danger, you can call the police. File a report for suspected abuse. Photos of the injuries would help.”
I took a deep breath. It wasn't a conversation I had ever imagined having.
Two days later, Diego returned from his trip.
I saw him come through the door with his suitcase, smiling wearily, as always. He hugged me, kissed me on the forehead, and asked about my week. I answered with short, automatic phrases. He noticed.
"What's wrong?" he frowned. "You have a face..."
"We need to talk," I said, interrupting him.
Her eyes changed immediately. That familiar gleam, a mixture of alertness and suppressed annoyance.
—You got someone to help with Dad, right? I told you not to go into his room alone.
"I went," I said, looking him in the eyes. "And I helped him take a bath."
His jaw tightened.
"I told you not to," she repeated, this time in a harsher tone. "He might get nervous, he might..."
—Diego, your father doesn't "get nervous." Your father is covered in bruises.
The silence that followed was heavy. I saw, clearly, how her expression changed from surprise to something colder.
"He's old, Ana. He gets marks on anything. The caregivers sometimes..."
"The caregivers don't hit him," I interrupted, pulling out my phone. "I've already spoken to them. And I have photos. Bruises that aren't just simple 'marks.'"
I swiped and showed him a close-up image of his father's torso. Diego glanced at it for barely a second and looked away.
"I don't know what you're implying," he said.
—I'm not implying anything. I'm saying what I saw. And what I read.
I took the notebook out of my purse and placed it on the table between us. He recognized it instantly. His eyes barely opened.
"What is this?" he asked, although it was clear that he did know.
—What your father wrote for months, when you weren't there. What you didn't want anyone else to read.
Diego grabbed the notebook roughly. He flipped through it, his fingers trembling. I saw him clench his jaw with each line he turned.
"He's delusional," she spat out finally. "You can see the lyrics yourself. They're weak, they're uncoordinated. Since when do you believe him more than me?"
"Ever since I saw him look me in the eyes with more clarity than you do now," I replied, feeling for the first time that I wasn't afraid. "Ever since he blinked 'yes' when I asked him if you hit him. Ever since I started seeing things about you that I never wanted to see."
He laughed, a dry laugh.
—So what are you going to do? Go to the police with this? With the scribbles of some old cripple who hates me because I finally got the company he always wanted to control?
It hurt that he said it so directly, but it was also a confession.
"I'm going to protect your father," I said slowly. "You're not going to be alone with him anymore. And yes, if necessary, I'll go to the police. I've already spoken with a lawyer."
His eyes darkened. For a moment I was afraid he would hit me too. But he just clenched his fists and turned away.
"You don't know what you're getting into, Ana," he muttered. "You have no idea who I really am."
