“Why,” he asks.
You could say you’re lonely. You could say your wife’s death left an empty chair inside you that money can’t fill.
But you don’t want to make your emptiness their responsibility.
So you tell him something simpler. “Because you shouldn’t have to be twelve and carry the world.”
Samuel’s eyes flicker, and for a second you see the child under the armor.
Then the armor returns. “We’re fine,” he says.
Jimena whispers, “Samuel…”
He silences her with a look that says not here.
You notice it. The way he controls the conversation. The way he’s always scanning, always positioning himself between you and his siblings.
He’s not just careful.
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