I’m Lucía Hernández, and until my sister’s wedding day, I thought violence only happened in other families. I grew up in Seville, in the house I inherited from my grandmother. It was old but strong, just like I thought it would be in my father’s house. He always said that the house would be mine because I took care of him when he was sick, and I also paid for the repairs with my savings. There was nothing written down, but I thought it was a silent agreement.

On the day of Marta’s wedding, my younger sister, the ceremony was simple and happy. In the middle of the reception, my father asked for a microphone. He smiled, raised his glass, and announced that as a wedding gift, he was giving the house to the new couple. I felt as if the ground had swallowed me up. I stood up, trembling, and said that I did not agree—that the house was my life too, and could not be given away.

Everyone was silent. Antonio stared at me with an anger I had never seen before. He approached me and, without saying a word, grabbed my arm. Before anyone could move, he slammed my head against the wall of the hall. The sound was fast and loud. I could taste blood and hear the whispers, screams, and panic of the guests.

Some defended him, some still recorded, and that’s when I realized that fear had truly ruled our family for years. I remembered the old yelling, the enforced silence, and how we had learned to obey to avoid his wrath. As I lay on the cold floor, the music stopped, and I knew that if I survived, I would never be silent again—even if it meant losing everything.

No one knew that a guest was livestreaming on his phone. That night, five million people saw me bleeding, shaking, and struggling to get up—while my eyes opened in shame and determination. As I was loaded into the ambulance, I realized that the blow was more than just physical. This was the end of a life I had endured in silence—and the beginning of a decision I had long since had to make.

I woke up in the hospital with my head wrapped in a blanket and my phone full of notifications. Clara, my friend, was the first to tell the story: the video went viral, the comments multiplied, and people were looking for answers. Me, I just wanted to know why a very private moment had become a public spectacle. The doctor said I had a mild concussion and a few stitches. But the wound inside—no name, no cure.

My father was arrested that very night. The police moved quickly because the evidence was clear—and there were a million witnesses. My mother didn’t visit me. Marta came, crying, and repeatedly said she didn’t want the house this way. I couldn’t answer. It was all over; the wound that had been left was deeper than the house.