Scrambled Eggs and Silence

The Year Was 1967

I was four years old. My world was small but crowded—my parents, my two little sisters barely out of babyhood, and me. We lived high above the street in a middle-class high-rise, fourteen floors up, trying to build a life like everyone else. Both my parents worked, which meant that, like so many families, we relied on a babysitter.

Her name was Joaquina. She lived six floors below us, in the very same building. She had two children of her own: Cindy, fourteen years old, sharp-eyed and sharp-tongued, who moved through every room as if it already belonged to her—and Michael, eight, quiet and gentle, a boy who still knew the difference between right and wrong.

Every morning followed the same routine. My mother would walk us down the hallway and into the elevator, her arms full of bags packed with care—homemade meals wrapped neatly, fruit already washed, juice boxes, snacks, diapers, toys. Everything three little girls could possibly need for the day. She kissed us, straightened our clothes, smoothed our hair, and handed us over.

While Mom was there, everything looked normal. But the moment the door clicked shut behind her… something shifted.

I tried to tell her. I really did. But I was four, and my words came out tangled and incomplete. She thought I was exaggerating, or imagining things, or simply confused. How could she know that a child can recognize cruelty long before she knows how to name it?

Joaquina Did Not Treat Us Well

The breakfasts my mother lovingly prepared never made it to us. They went straight to Joaquina’s children. Cindy and Michael ate our warm meals while we were served the same thing, every time—scrambled eggs drowned in ketchup. Midmorning snack? Scrambled eggs and ketchup. Lunch? If I refused to eat them earlier, Joaquina saved the plate and set it back in front of me. If I did eat them, she cooked another batch. By afternoon snack time, there they were again.

Scrambled eggs.

Ketchup.

Water.

Meanwhile, her children crunched apples, peeled oranges, and drank our juice. We pushed our plates around and learned that hunger could be quiet.

There Were Rules, Too

We were not allowed on the sofa—that space belonged to Cindy and Michael. We sat on the floor every day, cross-legged, watching television from below. Underdog blared from the screen, and even now, decades later, I can hear the theme song echoing in my head:

“There’s no need to fear—Underdog is here!”

I remember thinking how strange it was that a hero lived inside the TV, but never in that apartment.

Every morning, my mother sent us off looking perfect. Hair brushed. Dresses neat. Bows clipped just right. But after too many days of us coming home without them, she stopped fixing our hair. I begged her not to. I told her Cindy was taking them. She thought I was making stories up.

I loved hair accessories—bows, ribbons, anything bright and cheerful. When Mom finally bought new ones, I promised myself I would protect them. But Cindy wasn’t just bossy.

She was cruel.

She yanked bows and hairbands from our heads, ripping them out while we cried. Michael tried to intervene, but kindness was punished in that apartment. He got in trouble for defending us. Joaquina never stopped Cindy. She only shouted, “Stop crying, or I’ll give you something to cry about.”

One day, Cindy grabbed my toddler sister by her ponytail and dragged her around the glass coffee table while she screamed. I didn’t even try telling Mom anymore. I had learned the hardest lesson a child can learn—that sometimes, no one listens.

But the Worst Day… That One Never Faded

It was naptime. Joaquina sent us into a bedroom with a bare blue king-size mattress on the floor—no sheets, no covers. My sisters fell asleep quickly. Cindy came in quietly and sat beside me.

“Give me your bows,” she said.

I shook my head.

She asked again. I said no.

Then she reached for my baby sister, waking her abruptly. In her hand was a nail clipper. I don’t know where it came from. I only know the way it caught the light.

“If you don’t give me your bows,” she said calmly, “I’ll clip your sister’s face.”

My four-year-old mind couldn’t understand the choice in front of me. I only knew that what she was asking was wrong. I shook my head again.

And then she did it.

She clipped my baby sister’s face, just below her left eye. Blood spilled down her cheek as she screamed—a sound that felt too big for her tiny body.

Joaquina rushed in, grabbed my sister, screamed at Cindy, and dragged her from the room. Her voice was sharp and furious. Then, just as quickly, she turned to us and ordered us to go to sleep.

When my mother arrived that afternoon, my baby sister had a Band-Aid on her cheek. Joaquina laughed it off, telling Mom she had tripped and fallen into the glass table while running around it. I blurted out that it was Cindy who did it —but Joaquina dismissed me, saying I had a wild imagination. My mother didn’t argue. But something in her eyes changed.

That night, she sat me down and asked me to tell her everything. I did—the food, the rules, the bows, the nail clipper, the lies. I watched her anger rise with every word. I thought she was mad at me, so I stopped talking.

The next morning, she was quiet. Focused. Different. She dropped us off like usual. And then she came back. That afternoon, as Joaquina tried forcing scrambled eggs and ketchup into my crying sister’s mouth, there was a knock at the door. Cindy opened it. And there stood my mother.

She took it all in—the scene, the food, the fear. Then she exploded. Words flew. My mother grabbed our bags, scooped us up, and walked out. She never returned to work after that day.

Weeks later, sirens filled the air. Fire trucks lined the street. Joaquina’s apartment was on fire—Michael had accidentally set his bed ablaze playing with matches. No one was hurt.

I always wondered if it was karma.

Today, my sister still has a faint scar beneath her eye—a small mark that tells a large story. Mine isn’t visible, but it lives deep inside me. I learned early what cruelty looks like.

And I made myself a promise I’ve never broken. If I ever had children, I would never leave them with a babysitter.

And to this day, I still can’t stand the sight—or the smell—of scrambled eggs and ketchup.