My husband’s five-year-old daughter had barely eaten since moving in with us. “I’m sorry, Mom… I’m not hungry,” she would repeat to me night after night.

“Sorry, Mommy… I’m not hungry.”

That word—Mommy—surprised me every time; it was sweet, but it carried a hidden weight. I smiled at her, tried not to pressure her, and made an effort to create a safe environment. But the situation remained the same. Her plate remained untouched night after night, and the only thing she managed to eat was a glass of milk in the morning.

I spoke with Javier on several occasions.

“Javi, something’s not right. It’s not normal that she’s not eating anything. She’s too thin,” I told him one night.

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