In that moment, something shifted. I saw clearly that when it mattered, he chose them over me.
I pulled away when he reached for my hands.
“I’m not asking you to choose between me and your parents,” I said. “You already did. And you chose wrong.”
I told him what I needed now: that from this point on, I came first. Me. Mateo. Our family.
He promised. I told him I didn’t know if I believed him yet.
His parents left two days later. I hugged them goodbye as always. I never told them what I’d heard—not out of fear, but because confrontation would give them power they didn’t deserve.
After they left, his mother began calling more often. Sending gifts. Asking about Mateo. Warmer than before. I thanked her each time, quietly wondering if she knew that I knew.
One night, Luis told me he’d confronted them. He said they crossed a line and would no longer be welcome if it ever happened again. His mother cried. His father argued. Eventually, they apologized.
“It’s worth something,” I said. “Not everything.”
We sat together in silence. I realized how long I’d believed that staying quiet protected me.
