If I hadn’t been looking at her throughout our meeting, if Marta had only been a voice, I would have thought she was telling me someone else’s story. I detected no trace of pain in her tone. She was completely detached, as if her past had become a little dot in the universe, a star that was light years away from her. No hesitations, no anger. She was the same girl who, twenty years before, sitting in front of a psychologist, wearing a red sweater, had talked about being abused as if she were going through her homework.
