My dad saw me limping down the street, holding my baby and grocery bags, and asked where my car was.

I had prepared explanations for coworkers, neighbors, and strangers.

But not for my father.

I tried to shrug it off like it didn’t matter.

But it did.

Everything did.

I swallowed.

“Luis’s mom took it,” I said quietly, adjusting Mateo on my hip. “She said I should be grateful they’re letting us stay there.”

For a moment Dad didn’t move.
He stared at me like he had just heard a language he refused to believe existed.

Then his jaw tightened.

“Who,” he asked slowly, “is ‘his mom’?”