The Girl Who Learned to Keep Silent — Childhood in an Emotional DictatorshipI was born into a household where love was but a distant rumour. Present, yes, though never the protagonist. I grew up hearing hushed arguments and witnessing gestures that spoke far louder than words. My mother, a strong woman worn down by life; my father, a man who never knew how to love without dominating. I cannot recall a single moment of tenderness between them. What I do recall is tension. And silence.I am Vanina Vergara - C.V. Vergara to the english-speaking world born in Asunción- Paraguay. I have three children whom I love deeply, and this is my life.I became a “caregiving daughter” from the moment I learned to walk—responsible for doing things properly, for never being a nuisance, for smiling even when my stomach knotted with fear. Who taught me that? No one. And everyone. The Catholic school I attended spoke of a Virgin Mary: obedient, silent, sacrificial. I never once saw a woman at the altar raising her own voice. Nor in my home.As a child, I could not understand why I was so often ill. Today, I know it was my body crying out the words I could not utter. To endure the tension of two warring parents, the weight of being “the good one,” “the strong one,” “the helper,” was tearing me apart. Yet no one asked how I was. And if they did, I answered with a smile.Paraguayan culture, so proud of the traditional family, insists that a woman’s duty is to care. Care for the father, the mother, the siblings—and later, the husband. And for oneself? That was selfishness. I grew up believing it a sin to wish for freedom. To wish to speak. To wish to choose.I learned to read glances. To anticipate explosions. To tiptoe about the house as though I were an intruder in my own life. That little girl I once was still visits me from time to time. She looks at me from the corner and asks: Can we speak now? And I tell her: Yes. Now we can.I read letters sent to mailto:[email protected]