“Maybe. But not robbed.”
She gets in the car.
Daniel drives away.
Luis stands on the sidewalk long after they disappear.
You do not comfort him.
That night, the house is quiet again.
Not peaceful.
Wrecked.
Luis sits at the dining table with his head in his hands. The leftover mole is still in the fridge. The cake is half-eaten, frosting scraped where someone took the sugar flowers. A birthday banner hangs crooked over the window.
You stand in the kitchen doorway.
For a moment, you see him at seven, asleep at this same table over homework while Lupita warmed milk. You see him at fifteen, angry after failing math. You see him at twenty-one, promising he would finish school next semester.
You see every chance you gave him.
Every excuse.
Every rescue.
Every time love became a pillow under his fall.
He looks up.
His eyes are red.
“Pa.”
