To apologize.
You almost say he already did.
Then you remember: he cried, explained, admitted, and suffered.
But maybe he never apologized properly.
So you say yes.
He arrives wearing a clean shirt and carrying no food, no gifts, no performance. He sits across from you at the dining table, the same table where he placed the dog food.
His hands shake.
“I need to say it clearly,” he begins.
You say nothing.
“I humiliated you in your own house. I called you maintained while I was living from your money. I let Karla record you. I tried to move you into a senior home without your consent. I told people you were confused. I used your love like it was something I owned.”
His voice breaks.
“I am sorry, Pa. Not because Karla betrayed me. Not because I lost the cards. Not because I had to leave. I am sorry because I became someone Mamá would not recognize.”
Your chest tightens.
Lupita’s name sits between you.
Alive again.
You breathe slowly.
“She would recognize you,” you say.
He looks up, devastated.
You continue.
“But she would be very angry.”
He laughs through tears.
“She’d throw a sandal.”
“She would throw two.”
For the first time in a year, you both laugh together without bitterness.
Then Luis lowers his head.
“Can I do anything?”
You look at the table.
At the place where the bowl sat.
At the chair where Lupita used to sit.
At your son, still broken but finally looking at the damage without trying to decorate it.
“Yes,” you say. “You can bring dinner next Saturday. You can cook it. You can invite no one. And you can serve me first.”
He nods.
“I will.”
He does.
The meal is terrible.
Chicken overcooked.
Rice undercooked.
Beans too salty.
You eat every bite.
Not because it is good.
