AnnaMaria
My name is Lucía, and I am seven years old now.
Sometimes, when I look at food, my mouth tells me I am hungry, but my heart whispers I shouldn’t ask. That old voice isn’t mine. It belonged to someone else — someone who taught me to disappear.
The First Time I Felt Safe
I remember the night I told Mom — the Mom who stayed — what happened.
I wanted to whisper it, because whispers don’t upset adults. But she didn’t let my words fall to the floor.
She caught them.
She caught me.
The house didn’t feel scary anymore after the police came.
The officers talked softly, like they knew loud noises made me small. I liked the woman named Clara. She sat near me and didn’t touch me until I moved closer first. Adults who wait are rare.
The Hospital Smelled Like Soap
I slept in a bed where nobody yelled. The doctor didn’t blame me for being little. He didn’t say I was bad. He told Mom I was malnourished — I didn’t know that word, but I understood his face.
Mom held my puppet. I fell asleep with her hand near mine. I wondered if she would still be there when I woke up. She was.
Therapy Was Strange
The lady I talked to had soft eyes and a notebook.
She asked me why I apologized when food was given to me.
I didn’t know there was another way.
She taught me a new sentence:
“My body deserves food.”
I said it every day in the mirror.
Sometimes I didn’t believe it, but Mom did, so I tried.
Javier Stopped Being Dad
I don’t see him anymore.
Sometimes I remember his voice telling me to be quiet.
I remember him looking away when I cried.
But Mom tells me it wasn’t my fault.
I still don’t know how to believe that completely — but she repeats it enough that maybe, one day, I will.
The First Meal I Finished
It was soup. Just soup.
But I didn’t apologize before eating.
Mom cried a little when I asked for more.
I didn’t understand why adults cry when things are good — but now I think I do.
Sometimes pain turns into water when it finally melts.
School Feels Different Now
Before, I didn’t answer questions.
Now, I raise my hand sometimes.
If the teacher gives me a snack, I don’t hide it in my pocket “for later.”
I eat it.
Kids don’t stare at me as much.
I even made a friend named Sofía.
She likes drawing. I draw too — mostly hands. Maybe because they held me, hurt me, saved me.
Mom Sleeps Beside My Room
She doesn’t leave the door closed fully.
She says it’s just airflow, but I know it’s in case I need her.
Sometimes at night, I whisper:
“Thank you for hearing me.”
She doesn’t always hear it, but that’s okay.
I do.
Healing Is Slow
I still flinch when someone raises their voice.
I still ask:
“Can I eat this?”
even when it’s mine.
Mom says habits are like old coats — we stop needing them, but sometimes we still reach for them.
She holds my hand every time I forget.
The Day I Called Her Mom for Real
It wasn’t on purpose.
We were playing cards, and I laughed — a real laugh — and I said:
“Mom, look!”
She froze.
I didn’t apologize.
She didn’t ask me to.
She just hugged me like she’d been waiting forever.
I think she had.
I Am Learning New Truths
Food is not punishment.
Love doesn’t disappear.
Adults can choose to protect, not ignore.
And families are sometimes made, not born.
Sometimes I Pretend My Life Is a House
There are broken rooms I don’t like going into.
But there are new rooms too — warm ones, bright ones — where I get to dance, eat, sleep, grow.
Mom says one day those new rooms will fill the whole house.
I hope so.
If You Are Little Like Me
And someone tells you not to eat…
Tell someone else.
Tell someone who listens.
Even if your voice shakes.
I was small but someone listened.
Now I am bigger inside.
One Last Thing
Mom reads stories online — sometimes mine.
She says people cared.
I like that.
So if you read this, thank you.
I am still healing.
I am still learning.
I don’t whisper when I ask for food anymore.
Just that.
