Natalia painted one wall a gentle lavender, not too bright, not childish. She wanted Clara to feel safe, not managed.
On Saturday, the center’s iron gate creaked open like a warning. A young staff member led Natalia down a corridor that smelled of disinfectant and old stories.
Laura, the social worker, spoke kindly but with precision. Two weeks of supervised placement. Rules. Reports. Natalia nodded, as if obedience could guarantee outcomes.
When the door opened, Clara sat in a corner clutching a worn teddy bear. Her brown hair was pulled to one side. Her eyes stayed down, as though she hoped to disappear.
Natalia smiled slowly, carefully. She offered colored pencils. Clara chose green and drew a tree without lifting her gaze.
The lines were firm, but the trunk was pressed too darkly into the paper. Natalia watched and wondered what kind of storms the child expected.
On the drive home, Clara sat silently in the back seat, hugging the bear like armor. Cool April air flowed softly through the vents.
Natalia stopped at Mr. Enrique’s bakery and bought croissants that flaked apart in your hands and made mornings feel sacred. Clara ate quietly, observing the room.
At home, Natalia showed her the bedroom—butterflies on the wall, purple sheets, a small desk. Clara didn’t touch anything.
When Natalia reached to straighten the strap of Clara’s backpack, the girl flinched so hard the teddy bear slipped and hit the floor, the sound startlingly loud.
“I’m sorry,” Natalia said quickly, heart pounding. Clara picked it up and whispered, “I’m fine,” in a voice that sounded rehearsed.
That night, Clara lay awake, eyes fixed not on the ceiling but on the door. Natalia stood nearby holding a glass of water she never drank.
“I’ll leave the light on,” she said, trying to make reassurance concrete. Clara didn’t reply, but her fingers tightened around the bear’s frayed ear.
In the morning, Clara ate cereal without speaking. Natalia asked gentle questions—favorite color, favorite animal. Clara answered only with nods.
At noon, there was a knock. Laura returned for the first supervised check. Her smile was warm, but her eyes assessed everything.
Clara sat still on the sofa, hands folded. Laura asked if she felt comfortable. Clara nodded. Natalia felt relief—and then guilt for feeling it.
After Laura left, Natalia found Clara in the kitchen staring into the sink, following each drip from the faucet as if counting time.
“Do you want to help me bake?” Natalia asked. Clara hesitated, then washed her hands without prompting, scrubbing too hard, too long.
Natalia noticed Clara avoided standing behind people. She positioned herself with her back to walls, as though corners were safer than open space.
At bedtime, Natalia read a story about a fox finding shelter in winter. Clara listened expressionlessly, but her breathing changed during certain passages.
When the fox was chased, Clara stiffened. When warmth was offered, she looked away, as if kindness needed to be questioned.
On the third day, Natalia prepared a bath—not hurried, but intentional. Warm water. Lavender soap. A towel heated on the radiator.
Clara stood rigid in the doorway. Natalia kept her voice steady. “You can say stop at any time,” she promised, meaning every word.
Clara nodded once and stepped forward like someone sitting for an exam.
And in that moment, Natalia felt a fierce, helpless anger at a world that had taught a child to be afraid of gentleness.
