We were assured that the children had been warned.

The staff promised to watch more carefully.

The behavior, they said, would be handled.

For a while, it appeared to stop.

Maya stopped coming home with her braid half unraveled.

She no longer begged to stay home on days when she shared physical education with the same group of students.

I should have realized that children do not always tell adults when cruelty merely changes form.

Yesterday afternoon, I was preparing dinner when the front door opened.

“Maya?” I called.

She did not answer.

Usually, she entered the house talking.

“Mom, what’s for dinner?”

“Mom, can I have a snack?”

“Mom, I forgot my math folder.”

That day, I heard only the dull sound of her backpack hitting the hallway wall.

“Maya?”

I put down the knife, wiped my hands, and walked into the living room.

She stood beside the couch with her coat zipped to her chin and her hood pulled low over her head.

Her backpack was still hanging from both shoulders.

I knew immediately that something was wrong.

“Sweetheart?”

I stepped closer.

“Did something happen at school?”

She shook her head, but the movement was barely noticeable.

“Maya, look at me.”

She slowly lifted her eyes.

I reached for the edge of her hood.

She flinched.

“What happened?”

She remained silent.

I pulled the hood back.

My knees nearly gave way.

Her hair was gone.

The long hair I had brushed that morning had been chopped into rough, uneven sections just above her shoulders.

One side was noticeably shorter.

Thick clumps stuck out awkwardly at the back.

I dropped to the floor.

“Oh, my God.”

Maya immediately began to cry.

I reached toward her head, then stopped before touching her.

“Who did this?”

“Who did this to you?”

My voice grew louder.

Felix heard me from upstairs and rushed down so quickly that he almost slipped on the final step.

“What happened?”

Then he saw her.

His expression changed instantly.

He looked from Maya’s hair to me.

“Who cut it?”

Maya said nothing.

Felix grabbed his car keys.

“The school is closed,” I said.

“Then I’m calling Susan.”

He pulled out his phone.

“No,” I said. “Wait. We need names first.”

I turned to Maya and gently held her shoulders.

Her lower lip trembled.

“Was it the same children who pulled your braid?”