“You’re being dramatic,” he says. “Karla is pregnant. We were going to tell you today.”
You look at her.
“Is that true?”
She places one hand on her stomach, but not tenderly. Protectively. Like she is holding a bargaining chip.
“Yes,” she says.
You feel something twist in your chest.
A grandchild.
For one second, love tries to rise before reason can stop it. You imagine a baby in the house, a crib near the window, small socks drying in the sun. Then you look at Luis and remember the dog food.
A baby does not erase cruelty.
Sometimes it becomes the excuse for more.
“How far along?” you ask.
Karla looks away.
“Three months.”
Luis’s face flickers.
There it is again.
He did not know.
“Three?” he says.
Karla freezes.
You look from one to the other.
Luis’s voice drops.
“You told me six weeks.”
Karla’s eyes sharpen.
