“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?”I turned. My father’s face stared at me through the windshield, his eyes wide with disbelief.“Dad,” I said, my voice smaller than I intended.He pulled the car over immediately, turning on his hazard lights before the engine had even stopped. He stepped out quickly, still wearing his work shirt with the CFE logo stitched across the chest. His forearms were sunburned, and he carried the look of a man who was always in the middle of fixing something.His gaze dropped straight to my ankleThen to Mateo.Then to the grocery bag.Evidence.Why are you walking?” he asked. “Where’s your car?”My stomach tightened.I had prepared explanations for coworkers, neighbors, and strangers.But not for my father.I tried to shrug it off like it didn’t matter.But it did.
