The little girl clutches your mother tighter, eyes darting like she already knows men like Tomás.
You feel your blood turn cold and sharp.
“Tomás,” you say, voice low. “What are you doing here?”
Tomás shrugs and steps closer, boots thudding on the dirt floor.
“Living,” he says. “Taking care of the old folks. Somebody had to.”
Your mother flinches at the word care.
You look around again and your stomach twists harder.
If this is “care,” then hunger is a gift.
You swallow the rage burning your throat.
“I sent money,” you say, each word controlled. “Every month. For fifteen years.”
Tomás smiles, the kind that thinks it’s charming.
“And they received it,” he says smoothly. “You think money is magic? It doesn’t stretch forever.”
You take a step forward. The floor crunches under your expensive shoes like the house is mocking you.
“Not that much money,” you say. “Not the amounts I sent.”
Your father’s gaze drops.
Your mother’s hands tremble.
That’s when you understand it isn’t just poverty you walked into.
It’s fear.
The little girl stares at you, silent.
Her eyes are big and old, the kind of eyes kids get when they learn too early that adults lie.
You lower your voice. “Papá,” you say gently. “Tell me the truth.”
Your father’s jaw tightens. His eyes flick to Tomás like he’s checking whether he’s allowed to speak.
And when Tomás notices, he laughs.
“Oh, don’t start with the dramatics,” Tomás says, waving a hand. “They’re tired. Let them rest.”
You turn your head slowly, staring at him.
“Don’t speak for them,” you say.
