“The car you’re talking about,” he said calmly, “is the one you’re paying for?”
I looked down.
“It’s registered under Luis’s name,” I admitted. “He said since I’m living under her roof, she decides who gets to use it.”
Dad blinked once.
“You’re living under their roof?”
Heat climbed up my neck.
“After Luis lost his job, we couldn’t keep our apartment. His parents said we could stay until things got better.”
“And in exchange,” Dad said flatly, “they take your transportation.”
I didn’t answer.
Mateo shifted sleepily against me while my ankle throbbed harder with every second.
Dad gently took the grocery bag from my hand and opened the passenger door.
“Get in.”
“Dad…” I started, panic already tightening my chest. Panic about what Luis would say. About what Rosa would say. About how they always managed to make me feel like every problem was somehow my fault.
Dad cut me off without raising his voice.
“Camila. Get in the car. We’re fixing this tonight.”
Something in his tone—steady and certain—tightened my throat.
Still, I hesitated.
Fear becomes a habit after a while.
He stepped closer and lowered his voice so only I could hear.
“Daughter, you’re limping down the street carrying my grandson because someone wants you to feel trapped.”
My eyes burned.
“I don’t want a fight.”
His expression didn’t soften, but his voice warmed slightly.
“Then they shouldn’t have started one.”
He carefully held Mateo for a moment so I could climb into the car without twisting my ankle further. Mateo looked up at him—and smiled.
Dad secured him in the back seat with the focus of someone who had already decided that the next hour mattered more than anyone’s feelings.
Then he sat behind the wheel like a man preparing to drive straight into a storm.
My heart raced as I stared ahead.
Because I knew exactly where we were going.
And I knew Rosa would call me ungrateful.
But for the first time in months…
I didn’t feel alone.
The drive to Luis’s parents’ house was short, yet it felt endless.
Dad kept the radio off. He didn’t speak. He simply drove with the same tense calm I remembered from childhood—the calm he had when a transformer blew during a storm and everyone else ran except him.
Outside the window, life continued normally. Shops closing for the evening. Taco stands lighting their grills. People walking home.
As if my world weren’t about to change.
When we turned onto Rosa and Don Ernesto’s street, the air seemed to stick in my lungs.
“Dad…” I whispered.
He parked in front of the house without answering.
A neat two-story home painted pale yellow. Flowerpots perfectly aligned. Always spotless. Always orderly.
Always full of rules.
“Stay here for a moment,” he said.
“No,” I replied, surprising even myself. “If you’re going in, I’m coming too.”
Dad looked at me—not like a child, but like a woman making her own decision.
He nodded.
He helped me out of the car. Pain shot through my ankle, but I stayed upright.
Rosa opened the door before we even knocked. She was always watching the street.
She froze when she saw us.
“Camila,” she said sharply. “What are you doing here? And whose car is that?”
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