Tomás’s smile falters for half a second.
Then it returns, sharper.
“You always thought you were better,” he says. “Leaving town like you’re too good for dust. Now you come back in that suit to judge us.”
Your hands clench.
This isn’t about pride. It’s about stolen years.
You take another step, close enough now that you can smell Tomás: cheap cologne and cigarettes, the scent of someone who spent your money on comfort while your parents slept on earth.
“You managed their accounts,” you say. “You said you’d help with the bank. You said you’d make sure they had what they needed.”
Tomás’s eyes flash. “And I did,” he snaps. “I paid bills. Bought food. Fixed things.”
You gesture at the cracked walls, the rusted roof.
“This?” you say. “This is what you fixed?”
Tomás’s lips press tight.
For the first time, he looks irritated enough to drop the mask.
You look down at the little girl.
“Who is she?” you ask, softening your voice so you don’t scare her.
Your mother flinches.
Your father’s shoulders slump like he’s carrying a weight too heavy to hold anymore.
Tomás answers before they can.
“She’s mine,” Tomás says quickly. “My daughter. I moved back here to help. She stays with her grandparents.”
The little girl’s eyes flick to Tomás, and you see it: fear, not affection.
A child doesn’t look at a father like that unless home is a storm.
You kneel slowly, careful. “Hey,” you say to the girl. “What’s your name?”
She hesitates.
Her mouth opens, then closes.
Your mother whispers, barely audible, “Lucerito.”
Your chest tightens. “Little light,” you repeat softly, like a promise.
Tomás steps forward abruptly. “Don’t fill her head,” he warns.
Your eyes lift to Tomás. “Back up,” you say, quiet but dangerous.
The room freezes.
Your father coughs, weak. “Luisito,” he whispers. “Please… don’t.”
You stand slowly. “Papá,” you say, voice tight. “I’m not leaving until I know what happened.”
Tomás scoffs. “You’ll know what you need to know.”
You pull your phone out. You’re already recording without making a show of it.
“Say it again,” you tell Tomás. “Explain where the money went.”
Tomás’s eyes widen. “Turn that off.”
You keep the phone steady. “No.”
Tomás’s face shifts, anger rising. “You come into my house—”
Your father’s voice cracks, small but fierce. “It’s not your house.”
Silence hits like a slap.
Tomás turns slowly. “What did you say?”
Your father swallows hard. His hands shake.
“It’s not your house,” he repeats, voice trembling. “It was supposed to be mine. Our son paid for us to live… and you turned it into your cage.”
Your mother starts crying silently, wiping her tears with the edge of her sleeve like she’s trying not to cost anyone more trouble.
Tomás’s jaw clenches. He takes a step toward your father.
You move between them instantly.
