At 12:31, Luis bangs on your bedroom door.
“Pa! Open up!”
You sit perfectly still.
“Pa, don’t be childish. The card declined. We need to pay.”
You say nothing.
He knocks harder.
“Did you block them?”
You finally stand, walk to the door, and speak through the wood.
“Yes.”
Silence.
Then his voice lowers.
“What?”
“I canceled the cards.”
“Why would you do that?”
You look at the framed photo on your dresser. Lupita in her blue dress, smiling at your retirement party, one hand on your shoulder. If she were alive, she would have slapped Luis with a sandal and prayed for him afterward.
“Because maintained children don’t need credit cards,” you say.
The hallway goes silent.
Then Luis laughs, but it is thin now.
“Very funny, Pa. Open the door.”
“No.”
“Don’t start. Karla’s waiting downstairs.”
“Then she can keep waiting.”
His tone changes.
“You’re doing this because of the joke?”
