My name is Alina Reyes.
I'm sixteen years old, the daughter of Marta and Hector Reyes.
To outsiders, we probably look like a normal family. My father wears sleek suits, drives a black S.U.V., and smiles politely when people greet him. They call him a "real man."
But they don't know the truth.
They don't know that behind the walls of our house, silence screams louder than any sound. They don't see the bruises hiding beneath my mother's sleeves or how she shrinks into corners just to avoid his eyes.
They don't hear the way she cries when no one's listening.
I was only nine when I understood that my father wasn't like other fathers.
Other children jumped into their fathers' arms after school.
I hid behind the kitchen door.
Other homes smelled like dinner and laughter.
Mine smelled like blood, whiskey, and fear.
One night—just like so many others—the walls echoed with his rage.
"Useless woman!" he shouted. "Can't even serve a drink without spilling it?!"
I peeked from behind the staircase, holding my breath.
My mother—Marta—rushed to clean the floor, even though her hand was still red from the beating he had given her minutes earlier.
She didn't complain. Not a word.
She never does.
That silence? That's the only defense she feels she have left. And somehow… it only makes him hit her more
"You stood there like a dead thing! Speak! Speak, damn it!" he growled.
When she didn't, he raised his hand again.
She stumbled—but like always, she didn't cry out.
I pressed my little fingertips onto the railing.
My instinct was to rush to her. To yell at him.
However, I was only a school girl.
What about my dad?
He was a monster disguised as a man.
He turned and caught my eyes.
"What are you looking at, you little rat?!" he snapped. "You'll end up useless like her!"
I ran, hiding in my room, my heart thudding against my ribs.
But the walls couldn't block out the sound of pain.
That night, I watched my mother through a crack in the bathroom door. She stood in front of the mirror, wiping her wounds with cotton. She tried to cover the bruises with powder, trying to look 'normal'—in case he called for her again.
It was then that I noticed a photo tucked into the corner of the mirror's frame.
Faded. Slightly torn.
My mother stood younger, brighter, outside a theater.
Lead Soprano: Marta Delgado.
My chest tightened. My mother? A Singer?
She had never sung in this house. Not once.
Later that night, when the monster retreated to his own room and the house fell into cold silence, I slipped into my mother's room.
She was brushing her hair slowly, her shoulders slumped.
"Mom," I whispered, "that photo... were you a singer?"
She froze, then nodded and replied, "Yes, but it was a long time ago."
"Why did you stop?"
She met my eyes through the mirror.
"Because your father said music was for fools.
"He said a wife's place was in the kitchen — that raising you and keeping his house clean was enough for me."
I clenched my fists. He didn't just steal her dreams… he stole her voice too.
"I want to hear you sing," I said.
She gave a sad smile. "There's nothing left to hear."
But I didn't believe that.
"Then I'll find it," I told her. "I'll bring your voice back."
For a moment—just a second—something lit behind her eyes. A flicker of the woman she once was. The woman the world never knew as a singer.
And that night, I made a promise.
No matter how cruel he is...
No matter how broken she feels...
One day, I'll make sure my mother sings again.
The next...morning, the house felt colder than usual. I sat at the kitchen table, my fingers curled around a mug I was sipping from. I kept hearing my mother's voice from last night—soft, tired, and full of sorrow.
She had once been a singer, but now she barely spoke above a whisper.
I knew what I had to do. But first, I had to face the one man who had stolen that voice: my father.
He sat in his study, as he always did in the early hours. The door was slightly open, just enough for me to hear the sound of pages turning. He always read the newspaper before breakfast, his face buried in the headlines. To him, the world outside mattered more than the people inside this house.
I walked toward the door with shaking hands.
"Dad," I called, pushing the door open wider.
He didn't look up. "Speak."
Just that—cold and sharp.
"I… I want to ask you something about Mom."
His eyes lifted slowly. Cold. Distant. Like I was some stranger asking for charity.
"What about her?"
I saw an old photo. "She was a singer once, right?"
He stared at me. Silence stretched between us. Then he scoffed and leaned back in his chair.
"That foolish dream? She was wasting her time. It was useless..."
I swallowed hard. "But it made her happy."
He slammed the newspaper down. "Happy doesn't pay bills, Alina. Happy doesn't raise a family. I gave her a good life. A house. Food. Respect. That should have been enough."
I wanted to scream. To tell him he was a liar.
To tell him that scrubbing floors and being beaten up every day wasn't respect — it was control.
That even dogs ate better than her in this house.
But I couldn't say it.
"She gave it up for you," I said instead.
"Don't you think she deserves better?"
He stood up slowly. My heart pounded as he walked toward me, tall and looming.
"You're young. You don't understand the real world," he replied. "Your mother was nothing when I met her. I gave her everything she has. She should be grateful."
I backed away, but I held his gaze. My hands trembled, but I didn't lower my eyes.
"I think she deserves to remember who she used to be."
His eyes narrowed. "If I ever hear you putting nonsense ideas in her head, I'll make sure you regret it."
He didn't yell. He didn't raise his hand. But the threat in his voice was real, and it chilled me to the bone.
I left the study shaking—not just from fear, but from anger. From the knowledge that I was right.
And that this wouldn't be easy.
I looked again at the photo of my mother, smiling in front of that theater.
I touched the frame.
"I won't stop. Even if I have to fight him alone."
Because my mother wasn't just someone's wife; she was a woman with dreams, with a voice. And I would do whatever it took to help her remember it.
Even if I had to get beating in the process.
The next morning, I felt heavy.
Not tired, just weighed down, like my thoughts were rocks in my backpack. I moved through the house carefully, avoiding my father's eyes, my mind echoing with his words from the day before:
"If I ever hear you putting nonsense ideas in her head..."
At school, I couldn't concentrate. I stared at the blackboard, but all I saw was my mother's face. Her voice. That old photo. The life she left behind. I knew I had to help her—but I didn't know how. I was sixteen. Just a schoolgirl. What power did I have?
She didn't even ask for help. She never asked for help.
Because she was afraid.
And so was I.
By the time I got home, the sun was beginning to set. I dropped my bag in my room and walked into the kitchen, hoping to find her like always—busy, quiet, tired, but alive.
What I found instead made my stomach twist.
She stood by the sink, scrubbing a plate that was already clean. But when she turned, I saw it.
A bruise.
Faint, but there. A dark purple stain on her cheekbone, half-hidden under makeup that hadn't done its job.
My heart stopped.
"Mom?" My voice cracked.
She didn't answer.
I stepped closer. "What happened to your face?"
She turned her back to me. "I'm fine, Alina."
She always said that. "I'm fine." Two words that meant nothing and everything at once.
But I knew. I knew it was him.
My throat tightened, and I felt hot tears rising. I wanted to scream. I wanted to run into his room and throw every word I had at him. But I knew how that would end.
"I know he did it," I whispered.
Still, she didn't turn around.
"Why do you stay?" "Why do you let him do this to you?"
She turned and faced me. Her eyes were red, her lips trembling. But still, she said nothing.
And suddenly I understood.
She stayed... because she had nowhere else to go.
Because somewhere deep down, she believed this was the life she deserved.
Because after years of being torn down, she didn't think she was worth saving.
I felt so small, like a little girl in a giant world filled with rules I couldn't break...
And monsters I couldn't fight. I wanted to help her. I needed to help her.
But how?
Who would listen to me?
Who would believe that the great Hector Reyes, the famous architect, was a cruel husband who hit his wife when no one was watching?
I walked to my room and sat on my bed, hands in my lap, tears slipping down my cheeks. I didn't even wipe them away.
I wanted to be strong.
I wanted to be her hero.
But I was just a girl with a heart full of fire and no weapons to fight with.
Still... something in me refused to give up.
"If I couldn't fight him with physical power, I'd fight him with something else: truth. Light.
Maybe I could find someone from her past—someone who remembered the dreams she once had—someone who could remind her."
The bruise on her face burned into my memory.
It wouldn't be the last.
Because now it wasn't just about helping her find her voice.
It was about saving her life.
After dinner that evening, I noticed Mom didn't come downstairs again. The plates were still on the table, the lights still on in the kitchen. She always cleaned, even when exhausted. But tonight, nothing had been touched.
Something wasn't right.
I tiptoed up the stairs, my heart pounding harder with each step. My father's room, their shared room, was closed, but I knew she wouldn't be in there. They hadn't slept in the same bed for years. I couldn't remember when they stopped. I just knew Mom had a small room.
Her door was half-open, and the light inside was dim.
I pushed it gently, and what I saw shattered me.
She sat on the edge of her bed, her face in her hands, shoulders shaking. Soft tears filled the air.
"Mom…"
She looked up. Her eyes were swollen, red from crying.
"Alina," she whispered. "You shouldn't be here."
"Why not?" I stepped inside, kneeling in front of her. "You're crying. You're hurting. I can't just pretend I don't see it."
She looked at me for a long moment but didn't speak. That silence again—the one I'd grown up to hate. She would scream and beg and cry, but she would still hold everything inside.
"Why won't you ever say anything?" I asked.
"You let him hurt you. You let him break you.
And you just stay silent."
Still, she said nothing.
"So I brought up another topic"
"What about Grandma and Grandpa?" "Your family. Don't they care? Do they even know what's happening to you?"
Her face changed—a flicker of something, pain, or maybe fear.
But she remained silent.
"Don't they care about me?" I whispered.
"Why didn't they ever come? Not once? After all these years?"
She opened her mouth slightly but closed it again, then looked away.
And that was the moment I said, "I hate it when you do this!" I cried. "When you shut me out. When you let him win. Why do you protect him when he's destroying you?"
She reached for my hand.
"I'm not protecting him," she replied. "I'm protecting you."
I stared at her, stunned.
"And then she said the words I never expected: 'Don't confront your father again. Don't ask him any questions about me being a singer.' My heart jumped. 'How did you... how do you know I did?'"
She looked away again.
I hadn't told her. There was no way she could've known.
Unless...
My skin tingled. A chill spread through my chest.
"Did he tell you?"
She didn't answer.
But the silence was enough.
He warned her.
Maybe more than that.
She gently pulled her hand away. "It's better if you don't ask too many questions."
"No," I replied, standing. "He can't keep doing this. He can't scare us into silence."
She shook her head. "...You don't understand. There are things you don't know, Alina. Things I can't say."
"Then write it. Sing it. But please... don't stay quiet forever."
She looked at me—and for a moment, I thought I saw her break. Her lips parted, as if she wanted to finally tell me something.
But then she closed them again. That invisible cage around her heart snapped back into place.
"I'm sorry," she whispered.
And then she turned her back to me.
That night, I couldn't sleep. I stared at the ceiling, thinking about her words, about the family she never spoke of, about the bruises.
There was a story buried here.
A secret too heavy to carry alone.
And I was going to dig it out, piece by piece, no matter how deep it was buried.