I watched, my breath caught in my throat, as Rosa gently ushered Martina and Daniela out of the room, her hands resting protectively on their small backs. The moment they were out of Patricia's sight, the camera in the west hallway picked them up. I watched as Rosa knelt down on the hardwood floor, pulling both of my daughters into a fierce, desperate hug. Martina buried her face in Rosa's shoulder, and I could see the little girl's shoulders shaking with silent sobs. Rosa kissed the tops of their heads, whispering reassurances that the microphones barely picked up.
“I’ve got you,” Rosa murmured in Spanish. “You are safe. I am here.”
Tears blurred my vision. I stumbled backward, falling into the heavy leather chair behind the control desk. I pressed the heels of my hands into my eyes, trying to block out the reality of what I had brought into my home.
For the past eight months, Patricia had been systematically isolating me. She had started with subtle suggestions. Rosa is getting too old to keep up with the girls. Rosa is overstepping her boundaries. Did you notice the girls are acting out? It’s because Rosa spoils them. She had planted the seeds of doubt so deeply, watering them with fake concern and manufactured incidents, that I had actually begun to look at Rosa with suspicion. I had almost fired the only person who was actually protecting my children.