The smell of lunch filled the house before I even realized I was hungry.
Rosa moved through the kitchen with focused calm, setting the plates on the small table. A vegetable stew steamed in the pot, freshly made white rice released soft clouds of vapor, and fried chicken rested on a large plate, still crackling quietly in the oil that refused to settle. It was simple food, but it had presence.
We sat at the table. My father sat too… he didn't say anything. He just pulled out the chair and stayed there.
Rosa tried to fill the space.
— Do you eat meat? — she asked me, already serving before waiting for an answer.
— I do, yes.
— Good. — she smiled. — Otherwise I wouldn't know what to do.
Her smile was the kind that tried to hold an entire house together.
— And you… — she continued as she sat down — are you thinking about enrolling in some prep course here? Or college?
The question came lightly, but it carried too much future in it.
— I don't know yet — I replied. — I need to talk to my father first.
I lifted my eyes slowly toward him.
My father seemed more present now. His gaze less lost… almost sober.
— That's not what's holding you back — he said, without aggression. — It's not me.
Rosa stopped moving her fork.
— Your mother called when you left home — he continued. — Told me to figure out a way to send you back.
My fork froze in my hand.
— She thinks she still controls everything — he said, with a short, humorless smile. — She took almost everything from me… but not that.
He looked at me again.
— If she wants you back, she can come get you… you're an adult now. I'm not pushing you anywhere.
Something warm spread through my chest… it wasn't excitement, it was relief. Since I'd arrived, I'd felt rejected by him, and for the first time, I felt like I wasn't excess.
Rosa let out a long sigh.
— This afternoon I need to work — she said. — I've got some orders of sweets to deliver. If you want to help…
— I've never made sweets — I said, a little awkward.
She laughed.
— No one is born knowing how. You learn by doing. If it goes wrong, we eat it.
I smiled.
We talked a little more. Small things, ingredients, flavors, quick stories that didn't demand depth. Laughter came easily, shy, but it came.
Then I asked, trying not to sound too curious:
— Vicente… does he always eat here?
Rosa shook her head.
— Not always. Sometimes he stays at the garage and eats there.
She paused.
— When he goes a few days without coming by, I make some food containers and have him take them. Just to make sure he eats properly.
She said it like it was nothing.
But something tightened inside me. An unexpected, deep tenderness. Strange how someone I'd just met could awaken a kind of care I'd never felt with my own mother.
When lunch ended, my father stood up without saying anything. He pushed the chair back with excessive care, as if any noise might draw too much attention, and went straight to the bedroom. The door closed shortly after, with a dry sound.
Rosa began clearing the table, and I stood up right away.
This time, she didn't tell me to leave it.
I gathered the plates, stacked the glasses, carried everything to the sink. Lia stayed seated, her legs swinging slowly, watching us in silence, with that attentive way of someone who understands more than she says.
While we washed the dishes, Rosa started talking, her voice low.
— If you decide to stay… — she began — we can clear out the back room.
I looked up.
— It was Vicente's… now it's full of junk. But we can fix it, ask him to come over on the weekend to paint the walls… we can clean and organize everything. I think you'd feel better having a space of your own.
The idea touched me more than I expected.
— I… — I hesitated. — I don't want to go back to my mother's house. But I also don't want to get in the way of your lives here.
The words came out too fast, like I needed to let them go before they took root.
— You already have so much to take care of… — I continued. — My father, work, Lia…
Rosa put the dishcloth down in the sink and turned to me.
— Melissa — she said with calm firmness — I really do have a lot on my plate… there are days I wake up thinking I won't manage. — she paused briefly, taking a breath. — That everything will fall apart at once.
Her tone wasn't defensive. It was resolute.
— When your father and I decided to live together, I took in Vicente. Then I got pregnant with Lia. And now… — she gave a small smile — I'm taking you in too… that's how life works. If I just stop and give up because it's hard, I'll end up like your father.
I swallowed.
She went back to washing the last plate, speaking like she was telling an old story.
— I know you must be scared by everything you've seen since you arrived. But your father wasn't always like this. He tried… really tried. He looked for work, chased opportunities, endured more than it seemed. But at some point… — she made a vague gesture with her hand — he lost faith. And when that happens, a person starts giving up on themselves.
We stayed silent for a few seconds. The sound of running water filled the space.
— I don't give up on him — she continued. — And maybe… — she looked at me — with you here, we can lift him up again.
I looked at Lia, who was still watching everything with seriousness far beyond her age.
Maybe I hadn't come only to find my father. Maybe I'd come to find a place where, even broken, people still tried.
I took a deep breath before speaking, as if I needed to organize everything inside first.
— It's important to me to know that I'm not forcing my presence — I said. — I want to stay… but I want to help. I have some money saved… I think enough to help while I look for a job, share expenses… whatever it takes.
Rosa stopped me before I could go on.
— Melissa, we're okay.
The sentence came out simple, almost unexpected.
— Better than we've been in a long time — she added. — I've got plenty of sweet orders. Work isn't lacking.
She dried her hands, resting the towel on the counter.
— And Vicente… — she paused briefly — he never lets anything be missing. Every week he leaves money at the house. Even when I tell him it's not necessary.
There was a mix of gratitude and concern in her voice.
— He doesn't talk much, you've probably noticed. But he takes care of all of us… in his own way.
She stayed quiet for a few seconds, like she was deciding whether to continue. Then she took a breath.
— To me, Vicente is like a son — she said at last. — He always has been.
She looked toward the hallway door, as if he might appear at any moment.
— I worry about him. Sometimes I think he gets involved with people who aren't good. — she lowered her voice. — Not because he's like that… but because he feels responsible for us.
I swallowed hard. The image of those men running after us came back in full.
— He carries a lot on his own — Rosa concluded.
We stayed there, in silence… and a thought took over my mind…
Maybe I hadn't come just to look for my father… maybe I'd come to find the life I imagined when I felt suffocated in that house that was too big, where everything looked perfect and nothing breathed.
Here, nothing was tidy enough to hide the cracks, but even with difficulty, people lived. And maybe that was what I'd always wanted.