The night that happened, the rain did not leave you behind. All the house is envisioned in silence, it is a type of quiet that weighs and inconveniences that it después of a torment, but before the air has learned to breathe again.

In the bath, through a cerrada door, my daughter Emily, of doce años, stood on the edge of the bath, added a box of compresas. There are red eyes and pale skin. So the encimera extends to a fine line; No much, but enough to mark the end of his childhood and the comienzo of his new life, confused and deeply human.

When she suddenly knocked and she sheltered the door, she whispered: “Mamá… creo que algo eta mal conmigo”.

Me arrodillé, tomé sus manos temblorosas entre las mías y sonreí con dulzura.
“No pasa nada, cariño”, the dije. “Solo is mature. It’s normal; it’s about to become a woman.”

However, I felt the acute concern, not because of blood, but because I was afraid that I would sell it later. My hope, Mark, and our teenage boys never felt comfortable with these things. At home, the “women’s temas” are always tácito, susurrado between bathroom doors and enclosed cajones, escondidos as secretos demasiado privados para la luz del día.

I promised Emily that we would like to know her abiertamente, that we would not be afraid. Lo decía en serio. However, I don’t know how difficult it will be to fulfill this promise.

The first days were transported with peace of mind. The teacher at Emily uses compresas, keeps a record of her menstrual cycle, manages her colics with hot water bags and gentle steps. It is nervous, avergonzada, but also a little orgullosa. This is the same as before, and the query that will be taken into account will not be ignored.

Entonces, una mañana, where the voice of Mark comes from the step.

“Claire, how can we know what happened to the bathroom?”