You nod.
“Yes,” you say. “Because paperwork is how you did it.”
Then you do the thing he didn’t expect.
You open your phone and start recording, panning slowly across the ruins, the broken roof, the dirt floor where your parents slept.
“This is San Isidro,” you say into the camera, voice steady.
“This is what ‘development’ looks like when it’s built on theft.”
Reyes steps forward, panicked.
“Stop that,” he snaps.
You lift the phone higher.
“Why?” you ask.
“Afraid the truth will reach the same internet that celebrates you?”
Reyes’s hand reaches toward your phone.
Your security steps in immediately, blocking him.
The crowd gasps.
And in that moment, you feel the village tilt.
Because fear changes sides.
Within days, the story spreads.
Not the glossy “successful son returns” story.
The ugly one.
The one with names and documents and images.
Journalists show up.
A state investigator opens a case.
Reyes tries to call you privately, suddenly polite again, offering settlements and “understandings.”
You don’t meet him alone.
You don’t meet him at all.
Instead you rebuild.
Not as charity, but as correction.
You hire local workers, pay fair wages, and restore your parents’ home first, with materials strong enough to outlive thieves.
You set Alma up with school supplies, a tutor, a counselor.
She fights you at first, refusing to be “rescued” because she’s learned rescue can disappear.
But you show up every day anyway.
One evening, Alma finally asks the question you’ve been afraid of.
“Why did you leave?” she whispers, sitting on the edge of a new bed in a room that smells like fresh paint.
Your throat tightens.
You sit across from her, keeping your voice soft.
“I was scared,” you admit.
“Not of being poor. Not of the village.”
You swallow. “I was scared of being small.”
Alma watches you, eyes sharp.
“My mom said you were brave,” she says quietly.
“She said you went to chase a dream.”
You nod, shame hot in your chest.
“I chased it,” you say. “And I forgot to look back.”
She looks down at her mother’s photo, then back at you.
“Are you gonna leave again?” she asks.
You don’t answer with a promise that sounds pretty.
You answer with something practical.
“I’m moving here,” you say.
“Part-time at first. Then more.”
You inhale. “And even when I’m away, you’ll know where I am. You’ll be able to reach me.”
Alma’s eyes fill slightly, but she wipes them fast like tears are a weakness.
She nods once.
“That’s better,” she says.
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