Then another from your aunt Rosa.
Your father hit you like that in public? Has he done it before?
Your hand freezes.
Has he?
Not exactly.
Not like that.
But yes, in smaller ways.
A shove into a wall when you were seventeen and “talked back.”
A grip too hard on your arm when you refused to co-sign a loan.
A slammed door inches from your face.
A lifetime of violence measured carefully enough to be denied.
You type back:
Not like this. But this was not the first time I was afraid of him.
Then you put the phone down.
You shower.
You dress.
You walk out into Paris alone.
At first, you feel ridiculous.
This was supposed to be a family trip. You had planned every detail around their comfort. Museums Daniela wanted, restaurants your mother saw on Instagram, a day trip your father chose because he wanted photos at Versailles.
Now there is no one to please.
That turns out to be harder than expected.
You stand outside a café, unable to decide whether you want coffee because no one is telling you what they want first.
Finally, you go inside.
You order a cappuccino and a croissant.
You sit by the window.
You eat slowly.
No one interrupts.
No one asks for a bite and then takes half.
No one says you are boring for wanting silence.
You start laughing softly into your coffee.
Then you start crying.
The waiter looks concerned.
You wave him off.
“I’m fine,” you say.
And somehow, you mean it.
Back in Los Angeles, things are falling apart.
You know because Lucia keeps sending updates, and because Daniela, despite being blocked, begins emailing you from new accounts.
First, rage.
You ruined my graduation celebration.
Then guilt.
