Luis says, “Who was that?”
You do not answer him.
You walk to the front door.
Two men in navy shirts are standing outside with clipboards and folded boxes. A white van idles by the curb. One smiles politely when you open the door.
“Señor Ernesto Hernández?”
“Yes.”
“We’re here for the relocation assessment.”
“Ordered by whom?”
He checks the clipboard.
“Luis Hernández. Family authorized. The admission is pending payment, but we were told to begin packing personal belongings.”
Behind you, Luis says, “Pa, wait.”
You turn.
Your son is standing in the hall, suddenly not arrogant.
Caught.
That is different.
You look back at the movers.
“There will be no relocation.”
The man’s smile fades.
“I’m sorry?”
“I did not authorize this. This is my property. Please leave.”
The second man looks uncomfortable.
Luis steps forward quickly.
“It’s a misunderstanding. My father gets confused sometimes.”
