Maria:
The words stay in the room long after my mother says them. Your father is on the verge of losing everything. I don’t react immediately. I just stand there, looking between both of them, waiting for something to change, for one of them to soften it or explain it properly. My father doesn’t. He just looks at me, and somehow that makes it worse.
“What does that mean?” I ask again, but my voice sounds different now, thinner, like it doesn’t quite belong to me.
“Maria,” he says, quieter this time, careful with it, “it’s not as simple as—”
“Then make it simple,” I cut in. “Because you don’t get to say something like that and expect me to just stand here.”
My mother folds her arms like she’s already done with this. “It means exactly what I said.”
I turn back to him. “Is that true?”
