The scars of his father

Selma Elias froze when the ceramic plate burst apart inches from his face. The crash ripped through the apartment like gunfire. Rice and stew splattered across the pale wall beside him. Tiny shards skipped across the floor and stopped near his bare feet. For a second, nobody moved. Then Matilde laughed, not the soft kind of laugh mothers give their children. This one was sharp, bitter, cruel. “Look at him,” she spat. “Standing there like a lost dog.” Selma’s fingers tightened around his spoon beneath the table. Across from him, Rafael Elias remained still beside the dining chair, his work uniform damp with sweat and engine oil. The collar hung crooked around his neck. Exhaustion clung to him heavier than the grease staining his sleeves. His eyes stayed lowered. “I said I’m sorry,” Rafael murmured. Matilde scoffed loudly. “Sorry?” She grabbed the small bundle of cash from the table and waved it in the air. “Do you think apologies pay bills?” The ceiling fan creaked slowly overhead. Selma could hear the neighbors’ television through the thin apartment walls. Somewhere outside, a generator hummed in the darkness. Rafael took a small step forward. “I’ll get extra shifts next week.” “Next week?” Matilde barked a laugh. “That’s what you said last month.” She threw the money at his chest. The notes fluttered to the floor. Selma flinched harder at that than he had at the plate. Rafael stared down at the scattered bills without moving. The room smelled like burnt stew and alcohol perfume from Matilde’s body spray. “You embarrass me,” she continued. “Every woman around me is living comfortably while I’m here suffering with a mechanic who can barely feed his family.” Rafael slowly crouched to pick up the money. One note, then another. Selma watched his father’s trembling fingers smooth out the crumpled edges carefully, almost respectfully, as though the money itself deserved gentleness even if he didn’t. Matilde folded her arms tightly across her chest. “You know what your problem is?” she snapped. “You’re weak.” Rafael’s shoulders stiffened slightly. But he said nothing. That silence seemed to anger her even more. “You don’t act like a man. " You don’t provide like a man.” Her eyes flicked toward Selma briefly. “And this boy is growing up watching you fail every single day.” Heat crawled up Selma’s neck instantly. He lowered his gaze to the table. The stew on his plate had gone cold. Rafael finally stood upright again. His face looked older tonight. Not old in years, old in pain. “Please,” he said quietly. “Not in front of Selma.” Matilde rolled her eyes and pushed past him toward the sink. Metal pots clanged loudly. “Oh, now you care about the child hearing things?” she snapped. “Maybe you should care more about acting like a husband.” Water burst from the faucet. Rafael rubbed one hand over his face slowly. Selma noticed the deep cracks on his father’s palms. Tiny cuts lined his fingers from years of workshop labor, Rafael worked every day, morning until night. Yet somehow he always looked apologetic for existing. Matilde turned suddenly. “And where exactly did the rest of the money go?” Rafael hesitated just for a second, but Selma noticed. “I had to pay part of the shop debt,” Rafael answered carefully. Matilde’s eyes widened in disbelief. “You what?” “The owner said if I don’t complete payment.” Before he could finish, Matilde grabbed the empty drinking cup from the table and hurled it across the room. It slammed against the wall beside Rafael’s shoulder. Selma jumped violently. “You paid debt before feeding your family?” she shouted. “Are you stupid?” Rafael closed his eyes briefly. The muscles in his jaw tightened. “I’m trying to keep my job.” “Then maybe you should find another one!” Silence dropped heavily after that. Even Matilde seemed breathless now. The faucet continued running behind her. Rafael opened his eyes again, but something inside them looked dimmer than before. Like a light struggling to stay alive. “I’m doing my best,” he whispered. Matilde laughed coldly. “Your best is pathetic.” The words landed harder than the shattered plate. Selma felt them hit the room physically. Rafael didn’t answer this time. He simply walked toward the small refrigerator and opened it quietly. Almost nothing sat inside. Half a loaf of bread. Water sachets. A small container of pepper. He stared at the empty shelves for several seconds before shutting the fridge again slowly and carefully. Like even noise had become dangerous. Matilde shook her head in disgust. “I should’ve married Anthony when I had the chance.” Rafael froze only for a second, but Selma saw it. The tiny crack in his father’s composure. Matilde noticed too. And she smiled not kindly, never kindly. “You hear me?” she continued. “That man begged me to marry him. Today his wife drives a new car while I’m stuck in this miserable apartment with you.” Rafael swallowed hard. His throat bobbed visibly, then he turned away from them. At first, Selma thought his father was reaching for the cupboard. But then Rafael lifted one hand quickly to his face. Too quickly, his shoulders trembled once. Just once, Selma’s breath caught his father wasn’t searching for anything, he was wiping tears. The realization hit Selma so hard his stomach twisted painfully. Rafael Elias never cried, not when he broke his wrist at work. Not during the robbery two years ago, not even during grandfather’s burial, but tonight. Tonight his father stood in the kitchen crying silently while the woman he loved stared at him with disgust. Something hot burned behind Selma’s eyes, Matilde clicked her tongue impatiently. “Oh please,” she muttered. “Stop acting dramatic.” Rafael inhaled shakily before turning back around. His eyes looked red now, but he forced a weak nod anyway. “I’ll find another way,” he said. Matilde grabbed her phone from the counter. “You always say that.” She walked past him toward the bedroom. A trail of expensive perfume followed behind her. Seconds later, the bedroom door slammed shut. The apartment became painfully quiet, Rafael remained standing in the middle of the kitchen motionless. Selma stared at him, the silence between father and son felt strange now, heavy, embarrassing, and painful. Rafael finally bent down and picked up Selma’s fallen spoon from the floor. He rinsed it carefully beneath the tap before placing it beside the boy’s plate again. “Eat before it gets colder,” he murmured softly. Selma looked up at him, for the first time in his life, his father looked small. Not physically, something worse, broken and deep inside the chest of an eleven-year-old boy, hatred quietly took its first breath.