Your mother looked Alejandro up and down.
Then she looked at you.
“Inside.”
Alejandro stepped forward.
“Señora, I know this is sudden. I’m sorry for bringing trouble to your door.”
Your mother stared at him.
“Trouble doesn’t knock dressed like you.”
Abril coughed to hide a laugh.
You almost smiled.
Inside, the house felt tiny with Alejandro in it. Not because he was physically large, but because his entire life had been built for wider rooms. He sat at your kitchen table carefully, as if afraid of breaking something, while your mother placed coffee in front of him without sugar and no kindness.
“Do you love my daughter?” she asked.
Alejandro did not hesitate.
“Yes.”
Your mother’s eyes narrowed.
“Love doesn’t impress me. Men say it when they want comfort, forgiveness, food, or a bed. What are you going to do for her now that your mother took your toys?”
You opened your mouth.
Alejandro answered first.
“Work.”
Your mother laughed once.
“At what?”
His silence was honest.
He did not know.
That was the first time you saw how naked wealth had left him. Alejandro had degrees, languages, business training, polished manners, and powerful last names, but none of those things meant much when every door in his world belonged to his mother. He had been raised to inherit, not to survive.
Your mother saw it too.
She leaned forward.
“You walked out for my daughter. Fine. Very pretty. But if you make her your shelter while calling it love, I will throw you back to Polanco myself.”
Alejandro looked at her with surprising humility.
“I understand.”
“No, you don’t,” she said. “But maybe you can learn.”
That night, you slept on the floor beside Abril while Alejandro slept on the couch.
Nothing happened.
Everything had already happened.
You lay awake listening to the ceiling fan, your sister’s breathing, your nephew murmuring in his sleep, and Alejandro shifting uncomfortably in the next room. You thought of the mansion bedroom you used to clean, the imported sheets, the glass walls, the bathroom bigger than your kitchen. Then you thought of Alejandro on your mother’s old couch, choosing discomfort because leaving you behind would hurt more.
At three in the morning, your phone lit up.
Unknown number.
You should not have answered.
You did.
Beatriz’s voice was calm now, which was worse than rage.
“You have twenty-four hours to return my son.”
Your heart slammed into your ribs.
“He is not a suitcase.”
“He is confused,” she said. “You are ambitious. I understand ambition, Carmen. I even respect it when it is clean. But yours is filthy.”
You sat up carefully.
“You don’t know anything about me.”
“I know enough. I know your mother owes money on that house. I know your sister’s boy needs medical appointments. I know you study at night because you think a little certificate will make people forget what you are.”
Your hand began to shake.
“I know your weaknesses,” she continued. “Do not make me use them.”
You stood and walked quietly to the kitchen.
