The light was already bright when I opened my eyes.
Sunlight slipped through the thin curtain without asking permission, drawing stripes across the ceiling and making me blink slowly, like my body was still deciding where it was. For a second, I thought I'd dreamed everything.
Until I realized I wasn't alone.
Lia was standing beside the bed, too still for a child. She was just watching me, her head slightly tilted, like she was trying to figure out something important.
I startled before I could even think. My body reacted too fast, my heart jumping hard in a short jolt.
— Hi… — I said, pressing a hand to my chest.
She didn't move. She kept looking at me, serious, attentive, like I was a drawing that still wasn't finished.
So I smiled, trying to soften it.
— Good morning.
She blinked once.
— Vicente likes you.
The sentence landed in the room without warning.
I laughed without sound, more from nerves than because it was funny.
— What do you mean by that? — I asked.
But Lia had already turned away. She left the room without answering, her quick little steps echoing down the hallway.
— Lia! — I called, springing out of bed on instinct.
Only then did I notice the pajamas that were too short, the loose T-shirt, my legs exposed. I froze in the middle of the room, feeling a strange heat rise to my face. I rushed back, grabbed any clean clothes, and got dressed quickly, still with the feeling that I'd missed something important along the way.
When I left the room, the house was already awake.
Lia was sitting at the kitchen table, swinging her legs, while Rosa stirred something on the stove. As soon as she saw me, her face opened into an immediate, genuine smile.
— Good morning — she said. — There's fresh coffee and warm bread in the oven. Help yourself.
— Thank you — I said. — I'm just going to have some coffee.
I grabbed a mug, feeling the strong smell rise up, warm and familiar. The kind of smell that doesn't match tension, but can't erase anything either.
Rosa leaned on the counter, like she was taking advantage of a rare moment of calm.
— The shower burned out last night — she mentioned. — But Vicente's stopping by later to fix it.
A shiver ran through me before I could stop it.
Later.
— My father… — I asked, trying to sound casual. — Is he still sleeping?
Rosa let out a short sigh.
— He went to the market to buy some vegetables, some fruit… — she shrugged. — But with how long he's taking, he probably stopped somewhere to drink.
She said it without anger, without surprise… like she was talking about the weather.
I lifted the mug to my mouth, but the coffee tasted too lukewarm. I stared at the dark liquid for a long second, feeling something tighten slowly in my chest.
The house felt too normal for all of it.
Lia was watching me again, silent, like she was keeping something to herself.
Time passed too slowly.
Rosa started working around the pots, opening drawers with a little more force than necessary. She looked at the clock, then the door, then back at the stove.
— He should've been back by now — she murmured. — I'll start lunch anyway.
She grabbed a large pot, filled it with water, and set it on the burner.
— Without the vegetables there's not much I can do — she went on, more to herself than to me.
I leaned against the sink, feeling restlessness grow. It wasn't hunger. It was something else. A discomfort I knew too well.
— I can go look for him — I said.
Rosa stopped what she was doing.
— You don't have to.
— I want to — I said. — Where does he usually go?
She hesitated.
— There are a few places… — she said, wiping her hands on her apron. — But usually it's the bar on the way to the market.
She thought for a moment, then explained. Streets, a corner with a crooked tree, a small bar with a door that was always open and plastic tables on the sidewalk.
— If he's not there… — she sighed. — He'll probably be at another one along the way.
I grabbed my bag slowly.
— I'll just see if I can find him.
Rosa nodded, too tired to argue.
— If you don't find him, come back — she said. — Don't push it.
I left.
The street was too bright. The mid-morning sun hit the asphalt directly, lifting a hot smell of dust and old things. I walked following Rosa's directions, counting blocks without really noticing.
The bar wasn't hard to find.
The open door, the low sound of a television playing some old game, men sitting too early for all that. Plastic tables, sweating cups, empty bottles.
He was there.
Sitting in the back, bent over the counter, a grocery bag at his feet. The vegetables already wilting inside.
My chest tightened.
I approached slowly.
— Dad.
He lifted his face with effort, his eyes taking a second too long to focus.
— Oh… — he muttered. — You.
There was no surprise, no joy… just recognition.
— Rosa is waiting — I said. — Lunch…
He chuckled, crooked and low.
— Always someone waiting for something.
He looked at the bag on the floor, then at me.
The smell of alcohol hit hard. And with it, a shame that wasn't mine, but still fell on me all the same.
— Let's go home — I said, firmer. — Now.
He stared at me for a few seconds. A heavy silence formed around us, like the whole bar had lowered its volume.
— You don't tell me what to do — he said.
That was when I realized.
It wasn't just drinking. It was giving up.
— I know — I said. — But Rosa is waiting for the vegetables to start making lunch.
The words came out before I could think.
He looked away.
And then, outside, the sound of a motorcycle cut through the air.
My father lifted his gaze before I even turned, like he recognized the sound without needing to confirm it. The cup froze halfway to his mouth.
— Shit… — he muttered.
I turned.
Vicente shut off the bike and removed his helmet. The whole bar seemed to notice at the same time… a few heads turned, others pretended not to see.
He walked in without looking around. He didn't scan for a table, didn't measure danger. He came straight to us.
— Rosa is waiting for you — he said, voice low, steady.
My father laughed, short and bitter.
— Now you're running errands too?
Vicente didn't answer right away. He looked at the bag on the floor, the forgotten vegetables, then met his eyes again.
I felt the urge to speak, to step in, but something in Vicente's presence held me back.
— Get up — he said.
My father didn't move.
— Either you walk out of here — Vicente continued — or I carry you. Choose.
Some men at the next table exchanged looks. One of them smirked, waiting for a show.
My father looked at me then. For the first time since I arrived.
— Did you tell him to come?
— No — I said.
He stared at me for a long second. Then he lowered his eyes.
— I'm not the father you think I am.
— I know — I said. — But you're still what I have.
Vicente stepped closer.
— Let's go.
My father sighed deeply, like that movement cost more than any fight. He pushed the cup away, stood up with difficulty, and almost lost his balance. Vicente caught him before he fell, firm, without excessive gentleness.
— Grab the bag — Vicente said, not looking at me.
I grabbed it.
We left.
Outside, the sun felt too strong for all of it. Vicente helped my father onto the back of the motorcycle, adjusted the helmet on him like he'd done it too many times before.
Before getting on, he looked at me.
— Walk back. It's close.
I nodded.
The motorcycle pulled away slowly, without drawing attention.
I stood there for a second, holding the bag of vegetables like it was something too fragile. Then I walked back home.
The bag tapped lightly against my leg with each step, the plastic making a low, persistent sound. The sun stayed right there, too high, as if nothing had happened. People passed me without knowing anything, carrying their own urgencies.
When I reached the building, the door was open.
I went in.
Rosa appeared as soon as she saw me.
— He's home — she said, before I even asked.
I nodded.
She closed her eyes for a short second, then took the bag from my hand.
— Thank you — she said. — Truly.
My father was already sitting on the couch, eyes fixed on the floor, like looking at it was easier than looking at any of us.
I stood still in the doorway, watching that state that hurt to call real.
It was hard to recognize in him the same person who, once, had been the strongest man in the world to me.
The man who made me feel safe, who always seemed to know where to go, was now bent, small, too fragile to hold up even his own body.
What I felt wasn't anger… it was a kind of quiet mourning.
Because something in him had already left, and I was arriving too late to stop it.
Vicente stood near the door, helmet still in his hand, jacket unzipped.
His gaze passed over me quickly. Just one second. Enough.
— I'm going — he said.
— Thank you — I said.
He nodded, but before turning away, he added:
— If you need…
— I know — I said, before he could finish.
The door closed behind him.
And we stayed there. Me, Rosa, Lia… and a man too tired to be anything other than what he was.