The father returned to the hospital and noticed that the stepmother was endangering his daughter.

The corridor of San Aurelio Hospital was almost empty, lit by fluorescent tubes that whirred like a trapped insect. The white light made the waxed linoleum gleam, lengthened shadows, and made everything colder than it already was. Hector walked quickly, his tie loose, his shirt wrinkled, his heart pounding in his throat.

The nurse’s voice kept repeating in her head:

—Mr. Hector, Mariana is restless… and keeps asking about you.

He hung up without thinking. He canceled the meeting, turned off his phone while his partners stared at him in surprise, and drove off as if every traffic light were a barrier between him and his daughter.

As she walked down the third-floor hallway, the smell of disinfectant hit her. That same smell had been there the day they told her Mariana’s tumor was small, operable, “something manageable.” Since then, the hospital had become her second home… and a constant reminder of how fragile everything was.

But what weighed most heavily on his chest was not the illness, but the guilt.

Guilt for not having been there more.
For having worked late so many times.
For having left Mariana in the care of Verónica, his new wife, convincing himself that “it was for the best for everyone.”

Veronica…

Since marrying her, Héctor had tried to see only the good: her tidiness, her elegance, her ability to keep the house spotless. But there were details that didn’t add up. The way she frowned every time Mariana interrupted a conversation. The curt tone she used when she told him “don’t make a scene” when the little girl cried. The way she insisted that Héctor “needed to set boundaries” just when Mariana was asking for a hug.

He had turned a blind eye to those signs, telling himself it was just jealousy on her part, that “they’d adjust.” That excuse now burned in his throat.

As he turned the corner, he saw the sign: ROOM 312. The door was ajar.

And then he heard a voice that chilled him to the bone.

“I told you to finish it,” Veronica grumbled. “If you don’t take it, you’re not going to get better, and your dad is going to think I’m useless.”

Mariana’s voice was barely a broken whisper:

—But… my stomach hurts, I don’t want to…

Hector felt his chest tighten. He slowly approached the door and pressed his ear against it. Through the crack, he caught a glimpse of Veronica sitting on the edge of the bed, holding a plastic cup. The liquid inside was thick, a strange beige color, nothing like the clear syrups they always gave Mariana.

The girl leaned back, pressing herself against the pillow, her hands pressed tightly against the sheet.

“Take it!” Veronica insisted, smiling strangely. “Or do you want everyone to think I’m a bad wife and a bad stepmother?”

Hector didn’t think twice. His fear turned into a driving force. He pushed the door open forcefully.

The blow echoed in the room.

Mariana looked up suddenly. Her large, tear-filled eyes found her father, and in less than a second she threw herself at him, as if she had been holding back her tears just for that moment.

“Dad!” she sobbed, wrapping her arms around his neck.

Veronica froze, the glass halfway between her hand and the girl’s mouth. Her expression was frozen. For a moment, something akin to panic crossed her face before she tried to force a smile back into her smile.

“Honey… what a surprise,” she said, forcing a sweet, plastic-sounding voice. “I was just helping Marianita take her supplement. The doctor said it was necessary.”

Hector didn’t look at her first, but at his daughter.

“What’s wrong, princess?” he asked, stroking her hair.

Mariana hid her face in his neck, clinging on with desperate strength.

“I don’t want to, Dad…” she whispered. “It hurts… and I’m scared.”

Hector felt something break inside him. He reached out and firmly grasped the glass from Veronica’s fingers.

He brought it close to his nose.

The smell was thick, chemical, too strong. Nothing she recognized as part of her daughter’s treatment. She looked at the glass. It had no label, no brand, no indication.

“Who gave you this?” he asked, his voice low and sharp.

Veronica blinked.

“The… the doctor’s assistant,” he improvised. “He said it was so I could sleep better.”

“Which assistant?” Hector fixed his eyes on her. “Mariana doesn’t have any new supplements. I spoke with the doctor this morning.”

The silence fell like a ton of bricks.

At that moment, a figure appeared in the doorway. It was Lucía, the nurse on duty, holding Mariana’s file.

“Mr. Hector, I didn’t know you had already arrived…” he began, but stopped when he saw the scene. “Is everything alright?”

Hector raised his glass.

—Is this part of my daughter’s treatment?

Lucia frowned. She carefully picked up the glass, smelled it, and held it up to the light. Her face changed.

“This isn’t from the hospital pharmacy,” he said seriously. “And there are no additional authorized supplements listed on your card.”

Veronica took a step back.

“It’s… it’s a misunderstanding,” he stammered. “I just wanted the baby to sleep. Nothing was going to happen.”

Lucia looked at her straight on, without blinking.

—Mr. Hector, I’m taking this to the lab right now. We need to know what’s in it.

“Do it,” he replied, pressing Mariana closer to his chest.

Veronica took a breath and exploded.

“That’s enough!” she shouted. “You always treat me like the bad guy! I’m the one who’s here, the one who puts up with her tantrums, the one who stays with her when you’re in your meetings, and now you come here making a scene over a little help.”

Mariana shrank back, frightened. Hector felt her tremble.

Lucía didn’t waste any time. She peeked her head into the hallway.

“I need security on 312, please!” he called out.

“Don’t exaggerate, Lucia,” Veronica spat. “I’m the wife, I have a right to be here.”

Hector looked at her with a calmness he didn’t feel.

“Yes, you’re my wife,” he said. “And that’s precisely why I expected you to protect my daughter. Not to give her something under the table, without a prescription, while accusing me of not being there.”

Verónica opened her mouth to answer, but at that moment two hospital guards arrived. They stood beside her, without touching her yet.

“Ma’am, we’re going to ask you to leave the room while we review the situation,” one of them said.

“They can’t just throw me out like this,” she protested. “Hector, say something to them! Tell them they can’t treat me like a nobody!”

Hector looked down at Mariana. The girl was looking at him with pleading eyes.

“Veronica,” he replied, without raising his voice, “until we know what you were trying to give my daughter… you’re not coming near her again. This ends today.”

Something broke in Veronica’s gaze. The sweetness vanished, leaving only an icy gleam.

“You’re going to regret this,” she whispered. “No one will believe you can handle it all on your own. That girl is going to get out of hand, and you’ll come looking for me.”

—I prefer to make mistakes myself —Hector replied— than to leave it in the hands of someone capable of doing this.

The guards began to escort her toward the door. Veronica cast one last spiteful glance at Mariana.

“Ungrateful woman,” he muttered. “I was the best thing that could have happened to them.”

The door closed behind her. The silence that remained wasn’t truly silent: she could hear the soft beep of the heart monitor, Mariana’s ragged breathing, the subtle rustle of fabric when Héctor hugged her.

Lucía returned a few minutes later, without the glass.

“It’s already been sent to the lab,” he reported. “We’ll let you know as soon as we have the results. In the meantime, as per protocol, a possible attempt to administer an unauthorized substance will be recorded.”

“Does that mean…?” Hector swallowed.

“It means that if it turns out to be a sedative or something worse, this is going to be in the hands of the police,” Lucia said firmly. “And it also means that you did the right thing by going in there at that moment.”

Hector lowered his head.

“I… doubted my instincts many times,” he admitted. “I saw things I didn’t like, but I justified them. I shouldn’t have waited until it came to this.”

Lucia placed a hand on his shoulder.

—He arrived on time. That’s what matters.

The following hours were a mixture of waiting and silent prayer.

Mariana, exhausted from the fright, finally fell asleep hugging her favorite doll. Héctor didn’t move from the chair by the bed. He didn’t answer calls, he didn’t reply to messages. He just stared at that small face that had been too close to danger.

He recalled scenes he had ignored: Veronica raising her voice because Mariana had spilled some juice; the girl saying “I don’t want to be left alone with her” and him replying “you’re exaggerating”; that time he found her with red eyes and Veronica said “it was just a tantrum, nothing more.”

He felt the guilt falling on him like an entire building.

When they knocked on the door, her heart leaped.

It was Lucía, accompanied by a young doctor in a white coat and round glasses. She was carrying a folder.

“Mr. Hector,” said the doctor, “we already have the analysis of the fluid.”

Hector stood up without letting go of Mariana’s hand.

—What was it?

The doctor opened the folder.

“A strong sedative,” he explained. “A dose like that in an eight-year-old girl, with your daughter’s clinical condition… could have caused severe respiratory depression. If she had swallowed the whole pill, she probably would have ended up in intensive care.”

The world spun around Hector for a moment. He had to lean on the bed rail.

—But he didn’t take it—Lucía said quickly, looking at Mariana. —He arrived first.

The doctor nodded.

—We will include this in the report and file the corresponding complaint. The hospital cannot allow anyone to bring in external substances, much less administer them to a minor.

Hector closed his eyes for a second. When he opened them, a new light had settled behind them.

“Thank you, doctor. Thank you, Lucia,” he said, his voice hoarse. “From now on, no one enters this room without my permission. No one.”

—I’ll make a note of it in the log—Lucía replied. —And… if you need to talk, or have a coffee, or just get some fresh air, I’m on call all night.

Hector made a gesture of thanks that spoke louder than any words.

Dawn arrived, timidly peeking through the curtains. The golden light softened the harsh white of the walls and gave the room a less hostile feel.

Mariana began to move. Her eyelashes trembled, and slowly, she opened her eyes.

“Dad…” she murmured, half asleep.

“Here I am, Princess,” Hector replied, squeezing her hand. “I haven’t moved.”

She looked at him, as if making sure he was real, and then reached for his chest to snuggle up there, just as she had done when she was younger.

“Did she leave…?” he asked in a low voice. “Mrs. Veronica?”

Hector swallowed slowly. He had a thousand things to explain to her, but he chose to start with the essentials.

“Yes, he’s gone,” she said. “And he’s not going to come near you again. No one is going to force you to take anything that isn’t part of your treatment. And I—” her voice broke—”I’m not going to leave you alone again when you’re scared, do you hear me?”

Mariana nodded, her large eyes filled with tiredness but also with relief.

“I knew you’d come,” she whispered. “I asked the nurse to call you… because something… something wasn’t right.”

Hector hugged her with as much tenderness as strength, as if trying to repair with a gesture all the moments when he did not listen to her signals.

“Thank you for calling me,” he said. “Thank you for trusting me despite everything.”

She stayed like that for a while, breathing in rhythm with her daughter, feeling how the room, the hospital and the whole world shrank to fit in that small embrace.

Outside, San Aurelio was beginning its routine: stretchers, hurried footsteps, doctors’ voices, monitors, lives coming in and going out. Inside, in room 312, another kind of battle had been won.

It hadn’t been against a tumor, nor against a bacterium, but against something more invisible and treacherous: misplaced trust, fear disguised as care, blindness to the signs.

Hector looked at Mariana and made a silent decision. He wouldn’t just report Veronica. He wouldn’t just increase security. He would change his entire life if necessary.

Fewer meetings, more story time.
Fewer urgent emails, more little hands in theirs.
Fewer excuses, more presence.

He bent down and kissed his daughter’s forehead.

“From today on,” he whispered, “no one will put you in danger while I’m here. No one.”

And, for the first time in a long time, he felt that those words were not an empty promise, but the beginning of a new way of being a father.

As the sun finished climbing and filled the room with a warm light, Mariana closed her eyes again, this time at peace. Héctor settled back in his chair, with no intention of moving. If the world wanted to keep turning without him for a few hours, so be it.

He already knew exactly where he had to be.