You close your eyes.
There it is.
The joke.
Cruel people love that word. It is the cheap blanket they throw over violence when the room gets cold.
“No, Luis,” you say. “I’m doing this because it took a bowl of dog food for me to admit what you’ve been eating from me for years.”
He hits the door once.
Not hard enough to break it.
Hard enough to remind you he is younger.
Your hand moves toward your phone.
“Hit that door again,” you say, “and I call the police.”
For the first time that night, your son has no answer.
He walks away.
You hear footsteps, whispers, Karla’s voice sharp and angry. Then the front door opens and closes. Cars start outside. Guests leave in embarrassed clusters, the way cowards flee after enjoying a show they do not want to be questioned about.
By 1:10 a.m., the house is quiet.
