My father had nothing left of the man I remembered… his voice was tired, as if every word cost him something. He didn't hug me, didn't say he missed me, didn't say I had grown well. He just looked at me briefly, as if I were a visitor who had arrived without warning.
And maybe I was.
He lifted his chin slightly and shouted, far too loud for that small apartment.
— Rosa!
I heard hurried footsteps coming from the kitchen. A woman appeared in the doorway with wet hands, drying them on her apron. She stopped as soon as she saw me, and for a second I thought judgment was coming. But her expression was the opposite. Soft, open, almost relieved.
She smiled sincerely, as if I were good news.
— You're prettier than I imagined.
I didn't know what to say. My throat tightened in a strange way, because no one had said anything like that to me that day. Maybe not in a long time.
My father waved a hand in the air, as if closing the subject.
— Help her settle in. She can stay in the little one's room.
Rosa nodded and came toward me carefully, as if I might break.
— Come on. Give me the suitcase.
I almost said I didn't need help… almost. But I was too tired of pretending to be strong.
The hallway was short. The house was simple and smelled like real food. Not perfume or expensive cleaning products… food.
When we entered the room, I saw an extra bed already made, sheets tight, clean pillow, a blanket folded at the foot. Someone had prepared it before I arrived.
At the desk, a small girl, about five years old, was focused on a coloring book. She filled the drawing carefully, tongue out, as if that were the most important thing in the world.
Rosa spoke softly, as if she didn't want to scare her.
— This is Lia.
The girl slowly looked up. She measured me with a shy curiosity, then lowered her head again, returning to the drawing as if I were too big for her to understand.
"She's your half-sister," Rosa added.
I took a step forward, then stopped before invading her space.
— Hi, Lia.
The girl didn't answer. She just pressed the pencil harder, as if the paper were a safe place.
I didn't insist. I just smiled from a distance, respecting it.
Rosa opened the wardrobe, showed me an empty drawer, a corner of the dresser.
— You can leave your things here. If you need towels, pajamas, anything… I'll get it.
I nodded.
It wasn't just the kindness itself… it was the way she did it. As if she truly wanted me to fit there.
When we returned to the living room, Vicente was already in the kitchen, setting plates on the table, cutlery, glasses.
Rosa passed by me and said,
— Make yourself comfortable, we'll serve soon.
I sat carefully, observing everything like someone stepping onto unfamiliar ground. My father remained on the couch, eyes distant, a bottle nearby as if it were part of his body.
Rosa served my plate first. Rice with peas and ground beef. The portion was generous, almost maternal.
— Eat, okay? You must be hungry.
— Thank you — I managed to say.
I stared at the plate for a moment too long.
I had never liked peas… never. It was an old, childish stubbornness, but real. And there, at that table, that small thing felt ridiculous compared to everything happening. Even so, my stomach tightened slightly.
I picked up the fork, ready to eat, when Rosa suddenly exploded, her voice cutting through the room.
— Are you just going to drink? You're not coming to eat? Do you want to die for good?
My father answered something low and slurred, and I couldn't understand. She continued, now more to herself than to him.
— Every day this… every single day.
I froze, fork suspended, not knowing where to look. The scene was so intimate and so ugly that it felt wrong for me to be there watching.
When I finally looked down at my plate, I was startled.
Vicente, in silence, had pulled my plate closer to him and separated almost all the peas, one by one. As if it were something normal.
As if he knew…
As if he remembered…
My chest jolted softly. Because I hadn't said anything… hadn't complained or made a face. And yet, he remembered.
He pushed the little pile to the side of the plate, without looking at me.
— Eat — he said quietly.
I ate.
Dinner passed in a silence broken only by the sound of cutlery. Rosa spoke little, trying to keep the atmosphere standing, like someone holding an entire house together with their hands.
As soon as Vicente finished, his phone vibrated. He looked at the screen and his expression closed even more.
— I need to take care of something.
He stood and grabbed his keys.
Rosa sighed, as if she already knew what it was and didn't like it.
— Be careful — she said.
He didn't answer. He just left.
Rosa began clearing the table. I moved, ready to help.
— Let me—
— No — she cut in, gentle but firm. — You must be tired… go sit, watch some TV… rest today.
I nodded, but I couldn't stay still.
In the bedroom, I opened my backpack and took out a small wrapped box. A gift I had brought without really knowing if I'd have the courage to give it. Something silly, a leftover from childhood.
I went downstairs and stepped outside.
He was leaning against the building wall, talking to a man. The man was older, rough-looking, with the posture of someone who lived causing trouble. They spoke quietly, but I caught the end of a sentence.
— Set this straight before it gets ugly.
When they saw me, they stopped immediately.
The man looked at me as if measuring a situation.
— Who's she?
Vicente answered dryly, fast.
— A relative.
The man smirked mockingly, and the smile sent a chill through me.
— Name? — he asked, staring at me.
I hesitated, but answered.
— Melissa.
He repeated my name as if tasting it, then laughed quietly.
— The pocketknife?
I frowned, confused. He gestured toward the street.
— I work at a motorcycle parts shop. Drop by one of these days. I've got a secret to tell you.
Vicente took a hard step forward.
— Get lost.
— Easy — the man said, still smiling. — I'm just trying to be friendly.
Vicente stared at him firmly.
— Leave. And tell them the message was delivered.
The man raised his hands in fake surrender and walked away, but not in a hurry. He walked like someone who planned to come back.
I stood there holding the little box, feeling like I had stepped into the wrong place.
But I extended the gift.
— This is for you.
He took it, but didn't open it. Just held it as if it had weight.
— Go inside — he said.
— I just—
— Go inside — he repeated, firmer. — It's dangerous for you out here… especially at this hour.
I swallowed.
— And you? Aren't you coming in?
— No.
I looked at his face, trying to find something of the boy I remembered. I found it, but now it was mixed with something else. I couldn't tell if it was exhaustion, bottled-up anger… or just a constant state of alert.
Then I asked, in a thread of a voice,
— My father… is he always like this? Drinking?
He stayed silent for a second.
— Yes.
I lowered my gaze, and he gently took my phone from my hand. Typed something and gave it back.
— My number — he said. — Your father is calm… he won't hit you or anything. You don't need to be afraid.
The sentence was meant to calm me. But it scared me more, because it sounded like a warning he had repeated to himself many times.
— If you need anything and I'm not around… call me. Understand?
I nodded.
He gave a short nod, ending the subject.
I walked back toward the door and he stayed outside. And when I looked back one last time, he was already walking away, fast, disappearing into the darkness of the night.
In the bedroom, Lia was lying down, watching videos on her phone with the brightness too high. She didn't look at me.
I lay down on the extra bed and stared at the ceiling, stayed like that for a long time. When I looked at Lia again, she was already asleep… her phone on the nightstand.
My heart wouldn't slow down. It felt like I was still on the bus.
I picked up my phone… searched for Vicente, and there was his number among my saved contacts.
I typed a message.
"Hi, you can have my number too."
He replied almost immediately.
"Are you settled in?"
"Yes. Just… not sleepy. Still getting used to everything."
"Normal."
I stared at that word as if it were strange that someone understood.
The next message came a few seconds later.
"If you think it'll be hard to sleep, come down. I'll stop by."
I should have said no.
I should have stayed in the room, quiet, obedient. He himself had said that place wasn't safe at night.
But I had gone too far that day to keep being the same.
So I went down.
He was at the building entrance, leaning against his motorcycle, waiting as if he already knew I would come. The street was cold… it smelled like asphalt and night.
He looked at me and extended a white helmet. I held it for a second before putting it on, feeling the cold plastic in my hands.
He got on the motorcycle, and I climbed onto the back… not knowing where to put my hands. I had never ridden a motorcycle before.
When Vicente turned the key and the engine's rumble filled the space between us, he didn't move right away. He reached back, gently took my hands, and placed them around his waist.
His voice came muffled through the helmet, but firm enough for me to hear.
— Hold tight.
The motorcycle took off, and the rest of the city became wind and noise.
I could barely see anything beyond the lights passing too fast, blurred, and the constant movement of his body in front of me. I kept my arms tight around his waist, my heart racing too much to notice anything else.
When he stopped, I only realized we had arrived because of the sudden silence of the engine.
I got off slowly. Took off the helmet, and only then did the street reveal itself.
Food carts lined the sidewalk, improvised lights hanging from crooked wires. Plastic tables scattered without order, chairs scraping, people talking loudly, laughing, arguing about things that had nothing to do with me. Music came from somewhere undefined, tired, mixed with the smell of hot grease and open beer.
Everything felt too immediate. Too close.
Nothing there matched the places my mother used to take me. There were no reservations, no pretty names, no image to maintain. Just people existing without asking permission.
He removed his helmet and ran a hand through his hair. He waited for me without hurry, as if that chaos were familiar.
And strangely, I didn't feel out of place.
Just alert.
We walked to an empty table. He sat and ordered a beer.
He took a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and almost pulled one out, but stopped mid-motion when he looked at me. He put it away again without saying anything.
I pretended not to notice… but I did.
Before the beer arrived, a man showed up and sat beside him. The man was strange, with the same look as the one who had approached him earlier.
— So — he said. — We've got a debt to settle.
Vicente didn't move.
— I know — he replied, far too calmly. — I'll take care of it. But not today. Not now.
The man looked at me, and my skin went cold.
— You don't want the girl knowing about your business, right?
Vicente stood immediately. The chair scraped loudly against the ground.
— Get up and leave.
The man laughed, but it wasn't a playful laugh.
And then I saw it…
I saw three men coming toward us from the other side of the street. Fast steps, fixed stares.
Vicente didn't hesitate. He grabbed my hand.
— Come.
Everything happened too fast.
The chair fell. I almost tripped and the street spun.
He pulled me to the motorcycle and placed the helmet in my hands.
— Put it on.
I was shaking so much I couldn't fasten it. He did it for me, fingers firm, quick.
He put his on, we got on the motorcycle, and he turned the key.
— Hold on to me — he said.
I held on.
The motorcycle took off and the wind hit my face like a cold slap. I wrapped my arms tightly around his waist, my heart pounding in my throat.
And as the city turned into blurred light and the streets rushed beneath us, I could think of only one thing:
he had changed.
But everything about him was still familiar.
The smell, the steadiness of his hands, and above all, what I felt when I was with him. A quiet sense of safety, an absurd comfort. Even with the world turning upside down, inside I was finally at peace. I couldn't even remember the last time I had felt that.
It was as if I had left an entire life behind… only to land exactly here.