When your grandfather Ernesto said, “I’ll fix it tonight,” he did not mean he was going to sit in your parents’ living room and ask everyone to please behave like decent human beings.
He did not mean raised voices.
He did not mean another round of your mother crying about how hard she worked, your father pretending not to hear, and Fernanda folding her arms like a victim every time someone asked why she was driving your car.
He meant action.
Quiet.
Legal.
Immediate.
The kind of action only a man like Ernesto Salazar could take after spending seventy-two years learning that people who steal from family usually count on shame to keep the doors unlocked.
You sat in the back seat of his black car with Santiago against your chest, still wrapped in his blue blanket. Your son smelled like milk, baby soap, and the sweet warmth that made your whole body ache with love.
Your grandfather looked at you through the rearview mirror.
“Start from the beginning,” he said.
Your mouth opened.
