My mother, Patricia Mendoza, didn’t smile. She remained still, then exploded as if I’d confessed to a crime.
“You’re not even married!” she shouted. “What do you need a house for?”
My father, Ernesto, looked down, as always, and my sister, Daniela, laughed softly from the corridor.
Patricia took a step toward me, her eyes shining with indignation.
“That money was for your sister’s wedding,” he concluded. “For family, for what really matters.”
I felt the heat rising, but I forced myself to breathe. It wasn’t the first time my work had become a “debt” to them. I already knew the script: I was the one who “could do it,” and therefore I had to do it.
“No,” I said simply. “That money is mine.”
My mother’s face changed. It didn’t turn into sadness, but into something worse: calm.
He got too close. He grabbed my hair with one hand, pulling it back with precision, as if he knew exactly where it hurt, leaving no visible marks. I froze. I felt my scalp burning.
With his other hand, he took out a lighter, lit it, and the flame appeared small, blue and orange. He held it to my hair with a sickly serenity.
“If you don’t join this family of your own free will,” she whispered, “you’ll learn it the hard way.”
I felt the heat touch my face and the terror rise in my throat. I could smell the shampoo, the plastic of the lighter, the remote control.
I didn’t scream. I didn’t move. I just looked at her.
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