“Art?” the director repeated. “What’s happening in the art room?”
Sophie hesitated. Her eyes filled with tears.
—The teacher… Mr. Ramirez… says that when we stay after class, we have to help clean. But it’s not cleaning tables.
The air became heavy.
“What does it make you do?” the agent asked.
Sophie closed her eyes.
“She says we’re dirty. That children are always dirty. And that if we don’t clean ourselves properly, no one will ever want to touch us. She uses sponges… and a liquid that burns.”
I felt something break inside me.
“Does it hurt?” I asked, barely able to speak.
She nodded.
—It doesn’t always bleed. Only sometimes. And she says not to tell anyone, because it’s “part of the learning process.”
Agent Morales closed her eyes for a moment. When she opened them, there was no longer any doubt in her gaze.
“How many children are staying with him?” he asked.
—Sometimes four. Sometimes more —Sophie replied—. She changes the days. She says that way we don’t get used to it.
Everything fell into place. The urgent baths. The damaged clothes. The diluted blood in the drain.
“Why did you take a bath right away when you got home?” I asked, my voice breaking.
Sophie looked at me, and for the first time she cried openly.
—Because I was afraid that you would smell it too… and think it was disgusting.
I hugged her tightly as she sobbed against my chest.
What followed was an avalanche. The school was partially evacuated. Professor Ramirez was escorted from the building by the police that same day. Other parents arrived, confused, scared… some with the same knot of terror I had felt.
More children spoke. Each story was different, but they all shared the same thread: shame, fear, and an obsession with “cleaning up.”
It turned out that Ramirez had been moving from school to school for years. He always left before anyone could prove anything. He always left behind broken children, convinced that the filth was inside them.
That night, Sophie didn’t take a bath.
She sat with me on the sofa, wrapped in a blanket, watching cartoons like when she was little. Every now and then, she glanced at me, as if making sure I was still there.
“Mom,” she said to me before going to sleep, “do I not have to wash all the time anymore?”
I stroked her hair.
—No, my love. You never had to do it.
Months have passed since then. Sophie goes to therapy. Sometimes she still runs to the bathroom… but now only to wash her hands, like any other child. She no longer slams the door shut in desperation.
I, on the other hand, learned something that pains me to admit: children don’t always know how to ask for help with words . Sometimes they do it with strange routines. With silences. With rituals that seem innocent… until they aren’t.
Every time I clean the bathroom, I remember that piece of cloth caught in the drain.
And I am grateful to have found it in time.
If this story made you think of someone…
Share this, leave a comment and follow the page .
Sometimes, reading to the end can save a child.
