My name is Lucía Morales , and I grew up in a small apartment on the outskirts of Seville, where silence always weighed more than words. From the moment my mother, Rosa , married Javier Roldán , the house ceased to be a refuge. For him, my pain was a pastime. Every afternoon, when he came home from work smelling of tobacco and frustration, he would find any excuse to hit me: a school note, a misplaced glass, an answer he didn’t like. He said that’s how I “learned to be strong.” I was thirteen years old and already knew how to fake smiles in front of the neighbors
My mother never intervened. She would just stand there, staring at the floor, repeating that Javier was tired, that he wasn’t a bad person, that I was exaggerating. I learned to do my chores with one hand when the other hurt too much, to sleep on my side so they wouldn’t notice the bruises, to make up stories to justify the beatings. Fear became routine.
One Saturday morning, everything was different. Javier was in a bad mood from early on. He ordered me to clean the storage room, and when I tripped over a box, it exploded. I felt the sharp crack and then a sound I’ll never forget. Pain shot through my left arm, and I fell to the floor screaming. My arm was twisted at an impossible angle. Javier backed away, pale, and for the first time, I saw fear in his eyes.
At the hospital, as I trembled on the stretcher, my mother spoke before I could say a word. In a calm voice, she explained to the nurse, “He fell off his bicycle.” The doctor, Dr. Álvaro Medina , didn’t respond immediately. He looked me in the eyes, then observed the old bruises on my legs, my ribs, my back. His expression changed.
Without another word, he left the room and returned with a phone in his hand. He dialed a number decisively. My mother began to get nervous, asking what he was doing. The doctor replied in a low but firm voice, “I’m calling 911.” At that moment, Javier took a step back, and I knew something irreversible was about to happen.
The arrival of the police transformed the hospital into a tense scene. Two officers entered with professional calm, but their gazes were piercing. Dr. Medina explained what he had seen, pointing out my old injuries and speaking of clear patterns of abuse. I listened in silence, my arm immobilized, feeling for the first time that someone was on my side. My mother tried to interrupt him, insisting it was an accident, but her voice had lost its strength.
One of the officers, Sergio León , crouched down to my level and spoke to me gently. He told me I wasn’t in trouble, that what was happening to me wasn’t my fault. I hesitated before responding. The fear was still there, lodged in my chest. I glanced at my mother, who was avoiding my gaze, and at Javier, who was clenching his fists, furious and terrified at the same time. Then I nodded and began to speak. Every word was difficult, but it also set me free.
That night I didn’t go home. Social services intervened immediately. I was taken to a temporary shelter, a simple but clean place where no one shouted. A social worker, María Torres , patiently explained what was going to happen: investigations, statements, a long process. I only felt tired, but also an unfamiliar relief.Days later I learned that Javier had been arrested. My mother was called to testify. It wasn’t easy to hear her continue to downplay what had happened, but I couldn’t stop the process. The medical report was conclusive, and my words carried weight. I started therapy, learned to name what I had experienced, and understood that surviving didn’t make me weak
Eventually, I was assigned a foster family. Carmen and Luis didn’t try to replace anyone; they were simply there. They accompanied me to medical checkups, therapy sessions, and court hearings. The journey was long and painful, but each step took me a little further from the constant fear.
The day I testified before the judge, my hands trembled, but my voice did not. I recounted everything clearly. When I finished, I felt I was recovering something that had been stolen from me for years: my dignity. The sentence came months later. Javier was convicted, and for the first time, justice had my name on its record.
Today, years later, my name is still Lucía Morales, but I’m no longer the little girl who learned to hide the bruises. I studied social work because I wanted to understand and help. My relationship with my mother is distant; forgiveness is a slow and personal process. Not everything can be fixed, but you can move on. Sometimes the memory hurts, other times it just reminds me how far I’ve come.
I’ve learned that silence protects the aggressor, never the victim. If Dr. Medina hadn’t picked up the phone that day, my story could have ended very differently. That’s why I firmly believe in the responsibility of adults, professionals, and society as a whole. Looking the other way is also a form of violence
Every time I talk to young people going through similar situations, I see the same fear in their eyes that I felt. I tell them they’re not alone, that asking for help isn’t betraying anyone. Family isn’t defined by blood, but by care. Strength lies not in enduring, but in surviving and rebuilding.
I’m sharing my story because I know there’s someone out there, maybe reading this right now, who needs to hear it. If this story has made you think, if you know someone who might need support, speak up, share it, don’t stay silent. Your voice can be the start of real change.
And to you, who have read this far, I’d like to hear from you. What do you think about the role of those around a victim? Do you believe that as a society we are prepared to intervene in time? Share your thoughts with me, because talking is also a way to heal and build a more just future.
