You look back at the broken house.
“My life,” you say.
“Finally caught up to me.”
When you return inside, your mother is trying to fold the rags neatly like dignity can be ironed.
Your father is struggling to stand, stubborn even when his knees betray him.
Alma clutches a small plastic bag with three things inside: a comb, a pencil, and a folded photograph of her mother.
You kneel in front of Alma again.
“You’re coming with us,” you say softly.
Her eyes widen.
“Where?”
“Someplace warm,” you answer.
“And safe.”
She glances at your parents, uncertain.
Your mother nods and touches Alma’s cheek with a tenderness that makes your chest ache.
“Ve, mi niña,” your mother whispers. “It’s okay.”
Outside, neighbors peek from behind curtains.
You recognize faces that once watched you grow up.
Some look curious, some look ashamed, some look greedy.
You feel the village waking up to your presence like a rumor catching fire.
By the time the car arrives, a small crowd has formed.
A man you half-recognize steps forward with a smile too polished for this dirt road.
“Luis Alfonso,” he says, voice smooth. “Welcome back. I’m Councilman Reyes.”
The name hits you like a bad memory.
Reyes.
Your mother’s bitterness suddenly makes perfect sense.
He offers his hand like you’re old friends.
You don’t take it.
“I’m here for my family,” you say.
“Not for politics.”
Councilman Reyes chuckles as if you’re being charming.
“We all heard you’ve done very well abroad,” he says.
He leans closer. “Maybe we can talk about investment. About helping the town.”
You stare at him.
Your suit is red, but your vision feels even redder.
“You helped my parents,” you say quietly, “by taking their land?”
His smile falters for a fraction of a second, then returns.
“Misunderstandings happen,” he says quickly. “Paperwork. Bureaucracy. You know how it is.”
You do know how it is.
Better than he realizes.
“Yeah,” you say. “I do.”
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