Libros de asesoramiento sobre el duelo

Era una tarde sofocante de agosto, de esas en las que el pavimento brillaba como un espejismo y el aire estaba tan cargado de humedad que parecía sopa. Marcus solo había pasado por la gasolinera a comprar una bebida energética antes de ir a su turno de medio tiempo en la ferretería. No esperaba convertirse en noticia local antes de que se pusiera el sol.

Salió de la tienda, con la fría condensación de la botella sudando en la mano, y se detuvo un momento a la sombra junto al edificio. Fue entonces cuando lo oyó: débil al principio, un ruido apagado, casi como el llanto de un gatito. Miró a su alrededor, frunciendo el ceño, y entonces lo oyó de nuevo. Esta vez más fuerte. Definitivamente no era un gato.

Libros sobre el duelo para niños

Era un niño.

Marcus se giró hacia el estacionamiento, observando las filas de autos estacionados hasta que sus ojos se posaron en un viejo sedán plateado estacionado a pleno sol. Había una silla de bebé en la parte trasera. Y en esa silla, bien sujeta y empapada en sudor, había una niña pequeña —una niña de unos dos años— llorando y agitando los brazos débilmente.

El corazón de Marcus latió con más fuerza al instante. Corrió hacia allí y miró por la  ventana sucia .

La niña tenía la cara roja, estaba empapada en sudor y jadeaba como un pez fuera del agua. Estaba claramente angustiada.

Probó la manija de la puerta. Estaba cerrada.

Golpeó con fuerza el cristal. “¡Oigan! ¿Hay alguien aquí?”, gritó, buscando con la mirada al dueño del coche. No había nadie cerca que pareciera prestar atención, y los gemidos de la chica se debilitaban.

Libros sobre el duelo para niños

Marcus volvió a mirar a la chica. Tenía los labios secos y agrietados. Su pecho se elevaba con respiraciones rápidas y superficiales. No iba a aguantar mucho más.

Sacó su teléfono y marcó 911 con una mano mientras caminaba de regreso a la gasolinera con la otra.

¡Hay una niña encerrada en un coche! Parece que se está desmayando. ¿Pueden ayudarme? ¡Ahora mismo! —le gritó al cajero, quien levantó la vista sorprendido y asintió, ya con la mano en el teléfono de la tienda.

De regreso afuera, los instintos de Marcus entraron en acción. El operador todavía estaba hablando con él por teléfono, preguntándole por la marca, el modelo y la matrícula del auto, pero Marcus ya había tomado una decisión.

“Estoy rompiendo la ventana”, dijo, más para sí mismo que para cualquier otra persona.

Corrió de vuelta a su destartalada camioneta y agarró la llave de tuercas de detrás del asiento. El operador seguía aconsejándole que no interviniera, pero él no le hacía caso. No podía, no con esa niña desapareciendo tras el cristal.

De un golpe brusco, la ventanilla trasera del copiloto se rompió en una cascada de fragmentos brillantes. Metió la mano, con cuidado de no cortarse, abrió la puerta y la abrió. El calor salió disparado como la puerta de un horno al abrirse de par en par.

Desabrochó rápidamente el asiento del coche y abrazó a la pequeña. Ya no lloraba. Tenía los ojos entrecerrados y la piel húmeda y caliente. Marcus la llevó con cuidado a la sombra, gritando que alguien trajera agua. Un transeúnte entró corriendo a la tienda y regresó con una botella de agua fría. Marcus la abrió, vertió un poco en su mano y limpió suavemente la frente y los labios de la niña.

Moments later, the sirens arrived — police first, then fire, then EMS. Paramedics took the girl immediately, laying her on a stretcher and working quickly to cool her body. Marcus stood nearby, hands trembling, heart still racing.

He expected someone — anyone — to thank him. Instead, what came next was the last thing he anticipated.

A woman ran from across the lot, her face contorted with fury and panic. “What the hell did you do to my car?!”

Marcus turned, confused. “Are you the mother?”

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She didn’t answer, instead pushing past the police officer and staring at her shattered window. “You broke it! You broke my damn car!”

Marcus blinked. “Your daughter was locked inside. She could’ve died. The paramedics just took her!”

“I was gone for five minutes!” she screamed. “You had no right!”

The officers quickly stepped in, separating them. One of them asked for Marcus’s ID.

“Wait, are you serious?” Marcus asked, looking between the cops and the woman, who was now crying angrily as she inspected the damage.

“You’re detaining me? For saving her?”

“We’re not detaining you,” the officer replied. “We just need to get statements from both sides.”

And just like that, the narrative shifted. What started as an act of heroism was now under scrutiny. The woman was accusing him of damaging her property without permission. Even though witnesses backed Marcus up — even though the 911 call and the store’s CCTV would surely support him — the tone of the situation had changed.

Marcus sat down on the curb, dazed. The paramedics were still working on the girl, and the mother was now on the phone, pacing angrily. A part of him wanted to walk away, to avoid the headache, the questions, the potential charges. But he stayed, because that little girl had needed help — and he was the only one who had acted.

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Still, as the police officer approached him again with a notepad, Marcus couldn’t shake the bitter taste in his mouth.

He had done the right thing. But suddenly, the right thing didn’t feel right anymore.

Marcus didn’t sleep that night.

Even after the police had finished taking statements, even after they assured him he was free to go, the feeling of unease clung to him like a wet shirt. His hands still felt like they were vibrating hours later, as if the tire iron was still in his grip. He kept replaying the moment the glass shattered, the child’s flushed face, the mother’s screaming. Again. And again.

The next morning, his phone buzzed with a text from his manager.

“Need to talk. Call me before you come in.”

His stomach sank.

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When he arrived at the hardware store, the look on his boss’s face said it all. Mr. Klein was a decent guy — ex-military, clean-cut, no-nonsense — and he gave Marcus a sympathetic nod before pulling him into the back office.

“We’re getting a lot of calls. Some of them good, some not so much,” Klein said, hands folded.

Marcus sat silently, waiting for the inevitable.

“You’re not in trouble with me,” Klein clarified. “I’d have done the same damn thing, son. But corporate doesn’t like ‘incidents.’ Especially not ones that go viral.”

“Viral?” Marcus blinked.

Klein turned his laptop around. There it was — a blurry cell phone video uploaded to social media. Marcus, swinging the tire iron. The sound of glass breaking. The mother’s screams, echoing behind someone else’s shocked commentary.

The title? “Guy Smashes Car Window — Mom FLIPS OUT!”

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It had already hit over 200,000 views. And the comments were on fire.

Some were supportive:

“This guy’s a hero. That baby could’ve died.”

“Better a broken  window than a funeral.”

But others… weren’t.

“He overstepped. Not his kid. Not his call.”

“This is why people mind their business. He’s lucky she didn’t press charges.”

“Why didn’t he wait for police? Property damage is still illegal.”

Klein sighed. “People love controversy. Doesn’t matter if you were right. Some folks are calling in demanding we fire you.”

Marcus stared at the screen. “So what happens now?”

“I’m putting you on paid leave for a week. Let things cool off. It’s not a punishment — just damage control.”

Marcus nodded slowly. “Okay.”

He left the store feeling like someone had pressed pause on his life. As the week wore on, reporters began calling — local news outlets, then a national segment producer asking for an interview. He declined them all. He didn’t want to be famous. He didn’t even want to be known. He just wanted things to go back to normal.

But then the police called.

“Just a formality,” the officer said. “We’re following up on a report filed by the mother. She’s alleging you damaged her vehicle unlawfully. We’re not pressing charges yet, but she has the right to file a complaint.”

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Marcus felt his breath catch in his throat. “Yet?”

“It’s being reviewed. You’ll be notified of any decision.”

The following day, a certified letter arrived. A civil suit — the mother was seeking damages for the broken window and “emotional distress.”

That evening, he met with a legal aid attorney, a woman in her thirties with tired eyes and a reassuring demeanor. She listened carefully to his story, reviewed the police report and store surveillance footage, then leaned back in her chair.

“You’re going to be fine,” she said. “But you need to understand something — this isn’t just about the facts. It’s about optics. And this mother? She’s angry. Embarrassed. Maybe scared she’ll lose custody. People react in unpredictable ways when their parenting is under scrutiny.”

“So she’s turning it on me.”

“Yes. But we’ll file a motion to dismiss. And if it goes to court, I’m confident we’ll win.”

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Still, the weight of it all was exhausting. For the first time, Marcus felt real doubt. Not about what he had done — but about how the world responded to it.

Two weeks later, something unexpected happened.

A letter arrived in the mail. No return address. Just his name, hand-written on the envelope. Inside was a short note, carefully printed in blue pen:

“Thank you for saving my sister. My mom was really mad at you, but I saw everything. I was in the gas station. She left us both in the car at first. Then took me inside and left my sister because she didn’t want to carry her. Please don’t be sad. You’re a good person. – Ellie”

There was a childish drawing included: a man with curly hair (Marcus) holding hands with a small girl. A sun in the corner. A broken window with sparkles around it.

Marcus read the note three times before tears finally came.

In the weeks that followed, the suit was dropped quietly. CPS had opened an investigation into the mother, though Marcus never heard the outcome. The media lost interest. The internet moved on.

Eventually, the hardware store brought him back. Customers came in and shook his hand. Someone even started a GoFundMe that raised enough to pay his legal fees and replace the tire iron he’d left at the scene.

Still, Marcus kept the drawing — framed on the wall in his bedroom. Not as a trophy, but as a reminder.

That sometimes, doing the right thing doesn’t feel good. Sometimes it costs you sleep, reputation, and peace. But you do it anyway.

Because someone has to.