Mateo was eleven months old and weighed on my hip; Her wet curls stuck to my cheek. He patted my collarbone with his sticky little fingers, humming as if the world wasn’t splitting in two.

The grocery bag cut my hand. The gallon of milk hit my knee with each uneven step. I was half a mile from the apartment, and the afternoon heat in Monterey fell on me like a heavy hand.

I was only focused on one thing: getting home before Mateo started crying.

A car drove slowly past me. I shuddered reflexively. Then I heard my name—sharp, surprised.

“Camila?”

I turned around. My dad’s face was behind the windshield, his eyes wide, as if he sees something he just can’t accept.

“Dad,” I said, and my voice came out smaller than I wanted.

He pulled over quickly, turned on the turn signals, and got out before the engine shut down completely. He was still wearing his work shirt — the CFE logo on his chest, his forearms sunburned. He always seemed like a man in the middle of fixing something.

His eyes went straight to my ankle. Then Matthew. Then to the grocery bag, as if it were evidence.

“Why are you walking?” he asked. Where is your car?

My stomach tightened. I had rehearsed answers for friends, co-workers, curious strangers. I hadn’t rehearsed one for my father.

I tried to shrug my shoulders like it didn’t matter. But it did matter. Everything mattered.

I swallowed hard. “His mother took him,” I said, settling Mateo on my hip. She said I should be grateful that they let us stay.

For a second, Dad didn’t move. He just looked at me as if my words were a language he refused to believe existed. Then he clenched his jaw.

“Who,” he said slowly, “is ‘your mother’?”

“Luis’s mother,” I answered. Pink.

The name fell into the air like a curse. Dad’s nostrils widened. He looked past me, toward the buildings at the end of the street, as if he could see through the walls.

“You mean the car you’re paying for?” He asked with a dangerous calm.

I looked down. My fingers squeezed the plastic handles tight. “It’s in Luis’s name,” I admitted. She said that since I am “under her roof,” she can decide who uses it.

Dad blinked once, dry. “Are you living under his roof?”

The heat rose up my neck. “After Luis lost his job, we couldn’t keep the apartment. Her parents said we could stay until we recovered.

“And in return,” Dad said, his voice flat, “they’ll take away your car.

I didn’t answer. Mateo moved, tired. My ankle was beating like it had its own heart.

Dad took the grocery bag from my hand as if it weighed nothing and opened the passenger door.

“Get in.”

“Dad…” I began, because panic was already rising through my chest. Panic because of what Luis would say. So Rosa would say. Because of the way they always managed to make me feel like it was all my fault for needing something.

Dad interrupted me without raising his voice. “Camila. Get in the car. Tonight we’re going to fix this.

There was something in his tone—firm, definitive—that burned my throat. I hesitated anyway, because fear becomes a habit.

He came over and lowered his voice so that only I could hear him.

“Daughter, you’re limping down the street with my grandson in your arms because someone wants you to feel trapped.

My eyes burned. “I don’t want a fight.

His expression didn’t soften, but it did get warmer.

“Then they shouldn’t have started it.

He took Mateo carefully for a moment so that I could climb up without twisting my ankle any further. Mateo looked at him… and, treacherously, smiled at him.

Dad secured it in the back seat with the concentration of a man who has already decided that the next hour matters more than anyone’s feelings.

Then he sat behind the wheel, his hands steady, as if he were about to drive straight into a storm on purpose.

I looked at the road in front of us, my heart beating too fast.

Because he knew exactly where we were going.

And I knew that Rosa would say that I was “ungrateful”.

But for the first time in a long time… I didn’t feel alone.

The drive to Luis’s parents’ house was short, but in my head it felt endless.

Dad didn’t turn on the radio. He said nothing. He only drove with that tense calm that I had known since I was a child: the same calm I had when a transformer exploded in the middle of a storm and everyone ran except him.

I looked out the window at th