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.
