\u201cWhere\u2019s your car?\u201d he asked.When I quietly replied, \u201cHis mom took it\u2026 she said I should feel lucky they\u2019re letting us stay,\u201d Dad didn\u2019t argue. He simply opened the passenger door and said,Get in. We\u2019re fixing this tonight.\u201dThey had no idea who my father really was\u2026 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\u2014and 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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
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?\u201dI turned. My father\u2019s face stared at me through the windshield, his eyes wide with disbelief.\u201cDad,\u201d 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?\u201d he asked. \u201cWhere\u2019s your car?\u201dMy 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\u2019t matter.But it did.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
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