I never understood why he came looking for me, why, if my mere presence bothered him so much.

I've been living here for about 6 years now; I still remember the day I arrived. Since I was 3 years old, I had been in an orphanage. From what I know, my mother died; she had me very young. I know nothing about her family (I don't know if she had one or not); I only know that when she died, I ended up in that place. When I was 10, a man appeared at the orphanage to claim me; he was my father. I didn't know of his existence; I never knew anything about him. How, after so many years, did he know about me? Why was he looking for me? Would he know anything about my mom? All those questions and more filled my head that afternoon; none were answered.

I got into his car full of hopes, well disguised under my shyness and uncertainty. He was silent the whole time, barely even looked at me.

I got into the car with my only belongings in a paper bag, a change of clothes, nothing more was coming with me that day.

He was driving, and I was sitting beside him, in the passenger seat. The car looked like one of those latest models, the kind you see in magazines.

I didn't want to look him directly in the eyes, so I just tried to glance out of the corner of my eye. I could tell he had blue eyes, almost gray; he was tall, dressed well, and smelled of cigarettes.

Throughout the entire time, he never spoke to me, nor looked at me, until I uttered the first words, and damn, would I regret it.

"- Are you my father?" Fear overcame me. Silence, and then whack, a backhand slap that made my face turn and my head hit the car door window, that's how hard it was. I brought my hand to my cheek, which was hot and burning; I could feel his fingers imprinted there, I could feel them. I stayed still and silent; scared was an understatement.

At that moment, he turned around, looked at me with hatred and disgust.

"- Let me make something clear to you, never address me with that word again, don't you even think about calling me that way again, because I assure you, you piece of shit, you'll have a very bad time."

I froze, and in that very moment, I knew I wasn't going to a better place, and that nothing good would come of this.

He just kept driving in silence. It took us quite a while to arrive; it was a remote place, almost like the countryside. In the distance, a huge, beautiful house could be seen. I wouldn't say it looked like a modern mansion, but it was undoubtedly a lovely house with its own charm.

He gets out and tells me to go down the path, towards the back of the house, and to wait for him by the service door, that he would go introduce me and arrange everything.

I get out, and a man approaches to talk to him. I continue on my way in the direction he told me and wait at the door. As I was walking, I could see that the place was truly enormous, imposing, lots of land, lots of green, trees, and endless vegetation; you really couldn't see where the property ended.

Just then, the man approaches, passes by, and opens the door leading to a pantry, crammed with food and utensils. He continues down a hallway that leads to another storeroom, and on the other side, a cold room, I suppose something like a giant refrigerator. He keeps walking until he reaches an enormous kitchen. In this place, there's an older woman, perhaps around 50 years old; from what I overheard, she's the housekeeper. At no point does he tell her I'm his daughter, only that from today on, I'll be working here, that they should give me a uniform, find me a bed anywhere, and that no one should speak to me; they were forbidden to socialize with me more than permitted. The woman listened and nodded to everything.

He left; he didn't address me, didn't even look at me.

The woman took me to the laundry room and gave me a uniform. From there, she gave me a full tour of the kitchen area, the pantries, the laundry room, the service bathroom, and finally, my room. It was a small place, with no ambition to be more than that. Compared to everything else she had shown me, it was truly depressing, and I don't think it had ever seen better days. It had no windows, but it did have a door that led directly outside to a backyard, which in turn had a washbasin and, further back, a long line of clotheslines. I suppose in other times, it might have been a laundry room or another pantry.

I resigned myself to it; given how everything had started, I was in no position to complain.

The room contained a bed, a nightstand, and a chair; it didn't even have a wardrobe. But since all my luggage was a paper bag with a change of clothes, I didn't see that as a problem.

I left "my luggage" and put on the uniform to start my chores, as it seemed I would be a servant here, or perhaps a maid; I didn't know yet.

"What's your name, child?" the lady asked me.

"Ofelia, ma'am," I replied shyly, trying to avoid eye contact.

"Well, welcome Ofelia, I'm Mary, the housekeeper. I manage everything related to the running of the house and the staff. This is your uniform, you've already seen the house, I'll tell you your assigned tasks, and then it's to work."

The uniform was huge on me, as it was for a large person and I was only 10 years old at the time. After two days, Mary got me one tailored to my size, and truly, for the next 6 years, that was the only clothing I had.

My assigned tasks back then were simple: collecting the dishes left around the house at night, arranging the food in the pantry, helping in the vegetable garden, cleaning the laundry room after its scheduled use was over, and hanging all the clothes on the clotheslines in the garden behind my room.

As time went by and I grew and learned, I started doing other things, like cooking or even making homemade meals from scratch. Many Sundays, they had pasta for lunch made by me and no one else.

I still remember the first night in that house. I was gathering all the dishes that had been left lying around, mostly glasses and tea or coffee cups. It was a very busy place; there were always many people, either visiting or for business meetings, so it wasn't a minor task, as a lot of dishes were actually collected. That night, I was in the hallway, coming from the library, passing by the study of the master of the house, my father. I took two small cups with their respective saucers that were on the desk and left. As I closed the door, a closed fist hit me squarely on the left side of my face, which made me fall to the floor and hit a piece of furniture that was there. When I looked up, I saw the master right there, looking at me with hatred.

"What the hell were you doing in my study? Why did you come in? What were you doing in there? Answer, you piece of shit."

"I only went to collect the dishes, sir, I swear, just that." I answered fearfully, and at his slightest movement, I covered my face, noticing in that movement that my nose was bleeding.

He didn't even flinch and simply went to his study to check that I hadn't taken anything. Upon coming out, he grabbed me by the hair and told me I was forbidden to enter unless he called me or gave permission. And just as he had appeared, he left, and I went to the kitchen, my face red and dripping blood, hoping everyone was asleep; I was ashamed for anyone to see me like that.

That was just one of the many beatings I received later. Over time, I gathered information, like his name, what he did for a living. His name was Vicenzo Leggio; he was clearly Italian. From what I heard, he was involved in selling horses and some business with cars, or something like that. To my surprise, he had children and a wife. His wife was very beautiful; she had very white skin, lovely sky-blue eyes, and black hair. She never spoke a word to me except to let me know how much my presence irritated her. His children were two, a boy and a girl; they were younger than me, she was 3 and he was 5. It's not that he was father of the year, but he didn't treat them badly, so clearly the paternity problem was only with me.

As the years passed, and since my presence was almost invisible, I started to be the one in charge of bringing coffee to his meetings. It was there that I finally realized he wasn't only involved in the businesses I thought, but was also associated with or part of the mafia. I still didn't understand why he had sought me out, as my presence clearly bothered him.

Mistreatment and physical abuse became my companions for the remaining 6 years. No one spoke to me more than necessary; it wasn't that they were mean to me, they just didn't want trouble, and I understood that.

The house was enormous, so I always tried to stay in the places furthest from him or his wife. She had never hit me, but I didn't want to risk her deciding to start. He, however, took every opportunity, and it wasn't that he hit softly; he really hit with hatred and fury. He hit me as if he were hitting someone his own size. More than once I fainted from the blows; I had concussions, fractures, burns, bruises.

It's not that I simply stood by idly taking the beatings; once I wanted to leave, I tried to escape, and it was the worst idea I ever had.

He followed me. I was running through the fields without knowing exactly which direction; I just wanted to get away from the house and then I would see. The sound of grass and branches breaking behind me was what alerted me that I was being followed; to my great fright, it was him. He yelled at me to stop. I didn't, and then I felt the shot; he shot me in the leg. It wasn't a bullet, it was a pellet, but it still managed to injure me, and I fell. He approached and grabbed me by the hair, dragging me to the trunk of a fallen tree that was there, and when I was close, he placed one of my hands on it and hit me with the butt of the shotgun. The pain was unbearable; he shattered my hand, I could see the bone sticking out. Not content with that, he continued hitting me; he dealt me several blows to the face while insulting and threatening me for having tried to escape. What I remember next was being locked in what seemed like a basement, or a room, I don't know. I only know it was dark, there were no windows, I didn't know when it was day or night, and he only came every two or three days to leave me a plate of food and a little water. I had such a terrible time that after that, the idea of leaving that place simply vanished.

That day I was helping in the garden, I was in charge of picking the ripe tomatoes, and removing the ones that were ruined by snails.

In the distance, I saw two cars arrive, those sporty ones, the kind you use when you want people to know you have money. Everyone who came to this house had cars like that, so it wasn't too surprising either.

I continued with my tasks without paying too much attention, until Mary called me; they needed coffee in the study.

I was the one in charge of taking it, because Mr. Leggio, my father, knew very well that I wouldn't say anything about what I heard in there, not when I knew what awaited me if I were to open my mouth, and boy, did I know it. That's why that study was my responsibility, for its cleaning as well.

I entered carrying the tray with what they had ordered: two coffees and a whiskey. I left them on the table neatly, with sugar and everything they needed to serve themselves. There were two gentlemen; I didn't stop to look at them, I wanted to be in there as little as possible. I stood to one side, waiting for them to give me the order to leave. Just as he was about to give me the order, Mr. Leggio got angry because I had forgotten his ice. I swear he hadn't asked for it; I would never forget anything of his, and certainly not on purpose. Anyway, I couldn't object, only apologize. So I did. Despite that, he was very angry and insulted me.

"Where is my ice?"

"I forgot it, sir, I'm sorry. I can bring it right away."

"You're so incompetent, I should teach you a lesson right here."

One of the men interceded, "Come on, Leggio, it's just a bit of ice, man. Don't torture the young woman."

"I'm sorry, sir, I'll bring it right away."

I withdrew, and my feet couldn't carry me fast enough to fetch that blessed ice. I brought it immediately, left it, and waited again for the order to leave. Mr. Leggio just gave me one of those looks that told me what would await me later. I left, already thinking about my torment to come.

Night came, and with it, one of my usual tasks: collecting the dishes. I always leave the study for last because while I do everything else, I keep an eye out to make sure Mr. Leggio isn't nearby. That way, I try to avoid him as much as possible, especially today, after the ice problem. To my misfortune, once inside the study and as I was putting everything on the tray, I heard the door close, and then footsteps. I didn't even want to look because I knew what was coming. He grabbed me by the hair, shook me, and punched me in the face, which immediately cut my lip and made me bleed. He pushed me hard, and I fell to the floor. Once there, he kicked my head, which made my nose bleed, and once I covered my face, he kicked me hard in the stomach, leaving me breathless.

"You just can't stop being so stupid. I can't believe that after all this time you don't learn. You're detestable."

And just as he came, he left.

It wasn't all because of the ice; he simply hated me, detested me. I still didn't quite know why.

What little I knew was that my mother was a young Romanian gypsy woman. She had me young, perhaps before she was 20, or even younger. She died of an overdose. I don't have many memories of her, and although she wasn't mother of the year, she never mistreated me, not to this extent. From what little I know, from one of the social workers at the orphanage, she was in a gypsy community. I don't know when she met this man, my father, nor how he found out about my existence. I don't know if they had a relationship or if it was just a one-time thing, and here I am. I don't know how she ended up in Italy, if she was from here, if she has family. I know nothing about her, and there was no more information than what they could share with me.

He hates me, because I clearly must remind him of something he wants to forget, and perhaps my very existence is proof that it happened, that it existed.