Not, Are you okay?
Not, Where are you?
What did you do?
That was how you knew Beatriz had moved fast.
“I’m coming home,” you said.
“With him?”
You looked at Alejandro, who was staring at the mansion gates like he was watching his childhood be buried alive.
“Yes.”
There was silence.
Then your mother whispered, “Mija, rich people don’t fall. They land on people like us.”
You closed your eyes.
“I know.”
“No,” she said. “You don’t. But you will.”
The ride to Ecatepec felt longer than your whole life.
Alejandro paid with the cash he had in his wallet, which was more than you usually carried in a month but less than he had ever considered meaningful. He kept looking out the window as Polanco turned into traffic, traffic into chaos, chaos into the streets you knew by smell, sound, and scar.
The city changed.
Sidewalks cracked. Paint peeled. Wires tangled overhead. Vendors shouted over passing trucks. Children in uniforms walked beside women carrying grocery bags and exhaustion like second skin.
Alejandro did not speak.
You waited for disgust.
You waited for regret.
You waited for the first small fracture where love would begin to leak out.
Instead, when the taxi turned onto your street, he leaned forward and said quietly, “This is where you grew up?”
“Yes.”
“It’s loud.”
You stiffened.
Then he added, “I like that. My house was always too quiet.”
You looked at him.
He meant it.
That scared you more than if he had insulted everything.
Your mother was waiting at the door before the taxi stopped.
She was small, strong, and furious, with her hair tied back and flour on her apron because she always cooked when life went wrong. Your sister, Abril, stood behind her with wide eyes, holding your little nephew on her hip.
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.”
