At my daughter’s funeral, my son-in-law announced without a trace of shame, “I’m sending the girls into foster care. I deserve a new life.” He had no idea that my three granddaughters had secretly saved the notebook, the recordings, and the truth that would ruin the perfect wedding day he was already planning.

“You think you can keep them? I have the money, the connections. I’ll make sure they’re placed where they belong.”

I hung up, my hand shaking, the notebook still open on the kitchen table.

Renata woke, her eyes red, clutching the blouse to her chest.

“Grandpa, why is he being so mean?”

I knelt, pulling her close.

“Because he’s scared, mija. He’s scared of losing what he thinks is his.”

Lucía stared at me, the notebook in her lap, her fingers tracing the words.

“We have to tell the police.”

She was right. The recordings, the video, the notebook—this was evidence. But I also felt a surge of protectiveness, a fierce need to shield them from the nightmare that had already begun.

That afternoon, I drove to the police station, the notebook and USB drive in a small bag, the phone wrapped in a cloth. The line outside the station was long, the smell of gasoline and stale coffee filling the air.