That Monday morning was meant to be just another normal start to the week. The alarm buzzed, the kettle hissed, and Clara moved around the kitchen, making breakfast as her eight-year-old daughter, Aa, sat quietly at the table. But something felt off. Something was very wrong.

Aa, who was usually full of energy and laughter, now sat slouched in her chair. Her small hands gripped her stomach, her lips looked pale, and a thin layer of sweat shimmered on her forehead.
She hesitated for a moment, biting her lip before finally whispering, “Saturday night… it really hurt. I told Martí… but he said it was just the pizza.”
Martí—Clara’s husband. Aa’s stepfather. Clara’s thoughts raced. She had been working all weekend, leaving Martí in charge, believing her daughter was in safe hands. That trust now twisted into something else as she looked at her child’s fragile frame and wavering voice. A chill crept down her spine.
Without hesitation, Clara grabbed Aa’s coat.
“We’re going to the doctor. Now.”
The pediatrician had been with them since Aa was born. Usually, appointments were lighthearted—routine checkups, warm smiles, and easy reassurances. But not this time. The atmosphere was tense, thick with unspoken worry.
After a brief exam, the doctor’s expression darkened.
“I’d like to do an ultrasound—just to make sure everything’s okay.”
Clara agreed, trying to steady her breath as she gripped her daughter’s hand. The technician got the equipment ready, and silence filled the room.
But the moment the image appeared on the screen, everything shifted. The doctor’s demeanor changed in an instant—her calm disappeared, replaced by urgent, focused concern. She leaned closer, her brows furrowing as she stared at the monitor.