My father spotted me limping along the street, my baby balanced on one hip and grocery bags hanging from my other arm.
“Where’s your car?” he asked.
When I quietly replied, “His mom took it… she said I should feel lucky they’re letting us stay,” Dad didn’t argue. He simply opened the passenger door and said,
“Get in. We’re fixing this tonight.”
They had no idea who my father really was… until he showed up at their door and the color slowly drained from their faces.
My left ankle had swollen so badly that my shoe barely fit anymore. Every step sent a sharp pulse of pain up my leg, but I kept going. Stopping meant thinking—and thinking meant crying.
Mateo was eleven months old and heavy against my hip. His soft curls stuck to my cheek in the heat. He tapped my collarbone with sticky fingers, humming softly as if nothing in the world was wrong.
The grocery bag cut into my palm. The milk jug knocked against my knee with every uneven step. I was still half a mile from the apartment, and the warm Monterey afternoon pressed down on me like a weight.
All I wanted was to reach home before Mateo started crying.
A car slowed beside me.
My body tensed automatically.
Then I heard my name.
“Camila?”
