The question lands clean and devastating. I don’t answer right away. I won’t lie to him. I also won’t give him more than he can carry.
“Sometimes,” I say finally. “Yes.”
Nico’s mouth tightens. “Did he yell?”
“Yes.”
“Did he scare you?”
I inhale slowly. “Yes.”
Nico doesn’t press. He leans his shoulder into my arm, small and solid.
“I don’t like yelling,” he says.
“I know.”
“I get tight here,” he says, touching his chest.
I mirror his gesture. “Me too.”
He looks up at me, eyes searching.
“I won’t do that to you,” I say quietly. “I won’t yell at you. You can touch your ear. You can be scared or worried or mad or happy. All of it’s okay.”
He watches my face closely. “You promise?”
The word again. But I don’t hesitate.
“I promise.”
He nods. Decision made.
Then, after a pause, “Are we going to have to move again?”
There it is. The fear Lucia carried alone for three years, now voiced by a child who learned early that homes can disappear overnight.
I turn fully toward him, bringing us eye to eye. “No.”
His brows knit. “Mama said we moved a lot before.”
“I know.”
“Why?”
I choose my words carefully. “Because Mama was keeping you safe. Sometimes safety means moving.”
He thinks about that. “Do we have to do that now?”
I shake my head. “This is your home,” I say. “No one moves you without my say.”
He studies me. “Even if there’s loud noises?”
“Yes.”
“Even if people are mad?”
“Yes.”
