When I got home later, I found my father sitting on the living room sofa, the TV on at low volume. I walked in slowly, almost silently, looking for signs before even thinking of words.
No bottle on the side table, no strong smell in the air.
He looked… sober.
I sat down in the armchair across from him.
— Dad.
He lifted his eyes.
— If you don't mind — I began — I decided to stay.
I waited. He didn't say anything.
— I'm going to help Rosa around the house, with the expenses too. I'll look for a job.
He watched me for a few seconds that were too long to be comfortable. Then he spoke, without harshness:
— You understand that life here is different from the one you had with your mother?
I nodded.
— It's not easy here — he continued. — There's no one to fix everything for you. You'll have to take the reins of your own life.
— I know.
— Are you sure?
— I am.
He held my gaze for one more moment. Then he nodded.
He didn't smile or praise me, but for a brief second I saw something like pride pass through his eyes.
Then he turned his attention back to the television.
The rest of the day passed like a blur.
At night, already in my room, I sent Vicente a message.
"What time are you getting here tomorrow?"
It took a bit.
"In the morning."
"I'm going out early to buy the paint."
The reply came quickly.
"Wait. I'll stop by and take you."
I smiled to myself and sent a small, almost shy emoji.
He replied right after:
"Sleep. Tomorrow's going to be a long day."
I frowned, muttering softly.
— He could be less grumpy…
The phone buzzed again.
"Good night." 🌙
This time I smiled for real. I hugged the phone to my chest before setting it down on the pillow.
The day entered the room before any noise.
I first felt a light touch in my hair. Soft, almost imperceptible, brushing the strands away from my face with too much care to feel real. It felt so good I didn't even open my eyes. I stayed there, half awake, half not, trying to decide whether it was a dream or just laziness.
The touch continued… firmer now.
Fingers slid down my face to my cheek, and then came a short, precise pinch.
— Ow.
I opened my eyes with a start.
Vicente was there, leaning over my side of the bed, looking at me with an expression different from his usual one. Lighter.
— That's no way to wake someone up — I said, sitting up abruptly.
He laughed.
— It is. You're late.
— Late for what?
— To buy the paint — he replied, already stepping away. — I'm waiting in the living room… ten minutes.
He stopped at the door and looked back over his shoulder.
— If you don't show up, I'm going alone. And I'll buy purple paint for your room.
— You wouldn't do that!
His smile grew a little.
— I would.
He left before I could answer.
I muttered something to myself, but I was already pulling on a pair of jeans, still clumsy, tying my hair back. The threat was too serious to ignore. Purple had never been an option for me since childhood. Once I got a doll with a purple dress and spent weeks wrapping towels around it, pretending they were clothes, until I got another one.
I went downstairs fast.
Vicente was already in the living room, car keys in hand.
— Where's the motorcycle? — I asked, slipping on my sneakers.
— Left it at the garage.
— Oh.
When we reached the sidewalk, I looked at the car parked in front of the building.
— I remember this car… from the bus station. I didn't know it was yours.
He opened the passenger door.
— It's not.
I frowned.
— What do you mean?
He glanced at me, a short smile at the corner of his mouth.
— It's your father's.
The car was old, but clearly well taken care of. Impeccable paint, different wheels, an interior too clean to match the image I had of my father.
— This car doesn't suit him — I commented.
— Get in — Vicente said, ending the subject.
As soon as we drove off, he nodded toward the back seat.
— Grab the bag back there.
I turned and opened it. Inside were still-warm cheese breads and a thermal cup with coffee. The smell filled the car instantly.
I looked at him, smiling.
He kept his eyes on the road, but I saw it. The way his mouth moved, trying to hold back a smile.
I grabbed a cheese bread and took a small bite. Then I stretched my hand toward his face.
— Eat.
He hesitated for a few seconds. Glanced sideways, surprised.
— I know you like it — I insisted.
He opened his mouth and took the whole piece at once, without ceremony.
I laughed.
— Remember when we used to spend all our allowance buying cheese bread at the school cafeteria?
He didn't say anything, just looked at me. I knew he remembered, so I went on.
— We said we were going to save money… and never did.
I grabbed another one and kept talking, laughing to myself, while he drove, focused, answering little but listening to everything.
At the store, I chose the paint carefully. I teased him about colors, asked his opinion just to disagree afterward. In the end, I picked white. Simple and safe.
When we got back home, the sun was already higher.
We went into the back room. I had never gone past that door.
The space surprised me. It was bigger than I imagined, bigger even than Lia's room. The walls had peeling paint, the floor covered in a thin layer of dust. There were boxes stacked in one corner, some forgotten clutter.
But there was a bed, a wardrobe, a curtain on the window, yellowed with time.
It wasn't an abandoned place. It was just… left for later.
I smiled without realizing it and looked at Vicente.
— This room is going to be beautiful once I fix it up.
He didn't answer. He was already opening newspapers and spreading them across the floor, carefully protecting the areas closest to the walls, with the practical ease of someone who'd done it before.
— What do I do? — I asked.
He tossed a small bag in my direction. I caught it.
— Gloves — he said. — Start there.
I put the gloves on while he opened the paint can. He used an old piece of wood, worn at the edges, to stir the paint slowly until it was smooth, even, without light or dark streaks.
Then he handed me a brush.
— You do the details — he pointed to the narrow parts of the wall. — Where the roller can't reach.
He took the roller for himself.
— Looks like you've done this a lot — I commented.
He shrugged.
— I've done a lot of things.
And didn't explain further.
We started painting. The white covered what had once looked like old fatigue. Little by little, the room changed its tone, its air, its intention.
Until I reached a point I couldn't reach anymore.
I stretched my arm, went up on my toes… gave two useless little jumps.
Vicente stopped what he was doing.
Without saying anything, he brought over a ladder and placed it beside me.
— Climb — he said. — Lean on me.
I placed my whole hand on his shoulder. My palm felt the firm muscle beneath his shirt. I climbed slowly, step by step, while he held the ladder, still, attentive.
Every now and then I looked down.
He was there… standing. As if looking up would cross some invisible line.
I finished that part and started going down.
I was two steps from the floor when I felt a strong arm around my waist. In a quick, almost impulsive movement, Vicente lifted me off the ladder and set me on the ground.
I stared at him, too surprised to say anything.
He looked… awkward. Like he'd done it before thinking.
He pointed to the first step of the ladder.
— It's cracked — he said. — It could break.
I looked.
There was a tiny crack, so small it looked more like a scratch in the wood.
I gave him a light slap on the shoulder.
— It would only break if I weighed four times what I do.
He looked away, trying to hide his smile.
We finished the first coat, and white already covered almost everything. The walls were still damp, the smell of fresh paint filling the room, and the place felt different.
I set the brush down and looked around.
— Later we can ask Rosa what's in those boxes — I said, pointing to the corner. — See what we can throw away.
Vicente nodded, resting the roller in the tray.
That was when Lia appeared at the doorway.
She stepped in slowly, like she was entering important territory. She looked at me first, then straight at Vicente.
— Mom told me to call you — she said. — The table's set.
He answered with a quiet "we're coming," almost automatic.
We left the room together and went to the kitchen. Rosa was finishing setting the table. When she saw us, she made a face.
— The two of you like that are not sitting here — she said, hurried and amused. — Bathroom… water on hands and face… go!
I exchanged a quick look with Vicente and we went.
In the small bathroom, we stood side by side at the sink. Vicente turned on the tap and the water ran strong and cold, flowing over fingers stained white.
And suddenly, I was flooded by a memory too strong to avoid.
The two of us as kids, playing in the street in front of the house. My mother's voice calling us to lunch.
We ran inside, laughing, fighting for space at the bathroom sink, lightly shoving each other.
— Me first.— Get out.— Whoever washes first gets the bigger steak.
I washed my hands slowly, feeling the weight of that memory settle into the present.
Vicente was there. The same hands, the same shoulder brushing against mine. When he lifted his face, our eyes met for a second too short to turn into conversation. But I wondered if he remembered that time as clearly as I did.
I turned off the tap and we went to the table in silence.
As we sat down to eat, I knew… some routines don't disappear… they just wait for the right time to come back.
And in that simple moment, with the smell of food and fresh paint mixed in the air, I felt that the room wasn't the only thing being remade… it was us too.