I tried to convince myself the visit would go smoothly — a quick family stop, polite smiles, then we’d go home.
Then my sister-in-law Camila appeared, wearing that overly cheerful smile that always made me uneasy.
She crouched in front of Sofia.
“Want to come outside?” she asked sweetly. “I’ve got something fun to try.”
Sofia nodded immediately.
I stepped forward to follow them, but my mother-in-law Rosa placed a hand on my shoulder.
“Oh relax,” she said dismissively. “It’s just the patio.”
My husband Victor sat on the terrace drinking beer with his father, laughing loudly, completely uninterested.
In that family, one rule always existed without being spoken:
Don’t make a scene.
A few minutes went by.
At first everything sounded normal — birds chirping, dishes clinking, distant conversation.
Then came the scream.
Not the whiny cry of a child throwing a tantrum.
A scream of pure fear.
“Sofia!” I shouted.
I sprinted toward the patio.
The sunlight hit my face as panic surged through my chest.
There she was.
Standing by the lemon tree, crying desperately as a swarm buzzed wildly around her small body.
And Camila stood nearby, holding her phone high, filming.
Laughing.