⊰ Marcel ⊱
Standing here, in the dim light of the parlor, the warmth of the scotch I sip on barely cuts through the cold tension that has settled over me. My father, Guillermo, his gaze as sharp as the edge of a knife, watches me, breaking the silence between us. “Thinking about that girl, eh?” He probes, his voice a mix of curiosity and a father’s intuition.
It breaks through the hardness of my features, a sheepish smirk twitching the corners of my mouth as I shake my head and bring the glass to my lips once more. “Come on, boy. Soy tu papá. Un padre sabe,” he presses.
(“Come on, boy. I’m your father. A father knows.”)
I arch a brow, knowing that every word is true. I’ve never been able to hide much from him. Even now, as the grown, 31-year-old man he still refers to as “boy”, he can
