“When your grandfather first came to Carmona, he worked for a man named Esteban Ruiz.”
“Our relative?”
“No.”
Derek frowned.
“Same last name?”
Dad nodded.
“It confused everyone. Eventually they called themselves cousins even though they weren’t.”
Dad explained that Esteban owned a small agricultural shed and several acres outside town. My grandfather occasionally stored lumber there.
Years later, Esteban died without children.
Dad believed the land had been sold.
Inez took a photograph of the map.
“I can check the property records.”
Veronica had remained unusually quiet.
Finally she spoke.
“Can we go home?”
Mom looked at her.
Veronica swallowed.
“I mean Manuel and Carmen’s home.”
It was a small correction.
But everyone heard it.
Mom studied her for a moment.
“Yes,” she said. “We should.”
The return to the house was awkward.
Derek and Veronica entered first.
I expected some grand gesture.
Instead, Veronica walked into the living room and began collecting wineglasses left from the night before.
She gathered blankets from the sofa, folded them, then stopped.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
Mom stood near the kitchen doorway.
“For the mess?”
Veronica looked down at the glasses.
“No.”
She placed them on the tray.
“For acting like this was ours.”
Nobody rescued her from the silence.
That was important.
Apologies sometimes needed room.
She continued.
“When Derek lost his job, I was terrified. I kept thinking we were one bill away from losing everything.”
Derek leaned against the wall.
“You should have told them about the debts.”
“I know.”
“You told me not to.”
“I know that too.”
She looked at him.
There was no accusation in her voice.
Only exhaustion.
Then she faced my parents again.
“When we moved here, I told myself we were helping you. Then I started counting everything we did as proof that we deserved more say.”
Mom listened.
“The groceries. Appointments. Cleaning. Cooking. I turned all of it into a list.”
She shook her head.
