My mother smiled immediately, softening in a way she rarely did for me anymore. “Ay, mira qué linda,” she said, crouching to Harper’s level. “You are so polite.”
Harper beamed.
My father looked up from the living room armchair, newspaper folded sharply in his lap. His glasses slid lower as he studied us.
The fine lines in his face emphasized the growing list of questions in his head as he studied Harper with the same intensity he’d always reserved for things he didn’t quite understand.
That familiar tightness settled in my chest—the one that always showed up when I brought parts of my real life into this house. For a few minutes, it was fine. Polite. Surface-level. But beneath the clink of glasses and Harper’s cheerful chatter, something restless pressed between us.
Harper showed them the picture she’d drawn earlier. Little stick figures of her, me, and Logan holding hands at the beach. I saw my mother’s eyes linger on it, the quick pinch at the corner of her mouth before she smoothed her expression, filing it away as she poured juice for the table. My father asked Harper about school, about dance, about her favorite color, his questions gentle but his gaze darting toward me as if searching for something in her words. Each glance exchanged over Harper’s head seemed slightly sharper, more careful than usual.And then, inevitably, the questions turned once Harper became distracted by coloring and eating the fresh pastries my mother always picks up from the panadería on days I visit.
I followed her into the kitchen, carrying the empty bowls from our lunch.
“So,” my father said, folding the paper. “This is what you’re doing now?”
I bristled. “Excuse me?”
“Babysitting,” my mother said, already moving to tidy the kitchen. “After law school.”
The bang of the cabinet door closing behind her pulled me away from the way my mind replayed the countless times I had stood in this very spot, bracing for the inevitable clash.
My mother ran water in the sink, the faucet’s rush filling the silence as memories of my childhood echoed in my mind, moments when I felt I had to prove my worth, explain my choices, justify my existence between these walls that carried so many expectations.
She set a glass down hard on the counter just as I finally gained the courage to respond. “I’m helping a friend,” I said, attempting to keep my voice steady amid the storm inside.
“A friend,” my father echoed. “You mean aman.”
I didn’t answer.
“Is he married?” my mother asked.
“No.”
“Divorced?” she scoffed.
“Widowed,” I said bluntly. Although Logan’s history was not something I felt needed to be shared, sharing that stopped her.
And my father’s expression softened for exactly half a second—then hardened again. “How old is he?”
“He is 39.”
“And you think this is wise? You are 28.”
“I don’t see what is unwise about helping.”
She nodded slowly, eyes sharp. “So. Instead of focusing on your career, you’ve become a nanny.” Her lips pressed together in a thin, tight line as she avoided looking at me.
“I’m not—” I started, then stopped. Correcting her felt like stepping onto a landmine.
“You didn’t go to law school for this,” my father cut in.
My pulse pounded in my ears.
I had gone to law school because that was the safest way to prove I was worth the sacrifice they’d made. Because ambition was currency in this house. Because love had always proven to be performance-based.
I felt the familiar heat rise up my neck, dampness prickling at my hairline as my hands curled into fists at my sides. The pressure to prove, to justify, to explain myself into being worthy seemed pressed into the very skin of my palms.
In a fleeting, unguarded moment, a thought surfaced: they’ll never see me. I remembered, as a little girl, how I used to stand in the hallway, holding up my report cards, hoping for more than a nod or a distracted comment as my parents shuffled past with grocery bags and tired eyes. I would place my drawings on the fridge without asking, just to see if anyone noticed. Year after year, that longing deepened, settling into the ache I felt now, the fear that no matter what I did, I would always fall short in their eyes, lending the anger a more personal kind of ache.
