“Can I come visit?”
You think carefully.
“For dinner once a month. If you ask first. If you come sober, respectful, and without asking for money.”
He nods.
“Okay.”
“And Luis?”
“Yes?”
“If you ever try to move me out of my own home again, I will not give you thirty days.”
He lowers his head.
“I know.”
You almost hug him.
Almost.
Instead, you place one hand on his shoulder.
That is enough for now.
After he leaves, the house sounds enormous.
You walk from room to room with a trash bag.
Karla’s forgotten perfume.
Luis’s empty beer cans.
Old delivery menus.
Broken chargers.
Cheap decorations from parties you never wanted.
You throw away more than objects.
You throw away the version of yourself that believed a father must be endlessly useful to remain loved.
In Luis’s old room, you find one thing that stops you.
A photo of him with Lupita at age eight.
He is missing a tooth. She is kissing his forehead. On the back, in her handwriting, it says:
Our boy has a stubborn heart. May life teach him gently.
You sit on the bed and cry.
