Page 83 of Becoming Us
“Nothing, just…” I couldn’t finish it.
He nodded slowly. “I want to make something very clear to you, hijo.” His eyes locked on mine, steady and unflinching. “I have never, not once, broken the law.
My shoulders loosened at his words, shedding a weight I felt I’d been carrying for years.
“There have been choices I’ve made that might have bent it—but never broken. I know where I stand, morally. And it’s never been about taking what isn’t mine. So, whatever you’ve heard, this is the truth. Some people resent success—especially when it comes from someone like me. An immigrant. A man with an accent. Someone who built his own doors instead of waiting for one to open.”
He paused, then added, “You’ll face that, too, eventually. Maybe on a smaller scale, but it’ll still be there. If the wave ever hits—don’t lose sight of what you know.”
“Okay.” The word felt small against the weight of everything he’d just given me.
He exhaled and leaned back against the desk chair. “People can be cruel. Especially the young ones. I’m sorry you had to hear that crap.”
I shrugged. “I’ve heard a lot worse from Mom.” The laugh that came with it didn’t sound half as convincing as I wanted it to.
His shoulders sagged, weariness written all over him. “You two need to work on that.”
I swallowed hard.
This was the line between us. He would always defend her. And I was never going to tell him the full truth. Not when he still looked at her like she was someone worth protecting. Like she was fragile, instead of the one who broke things.
“It’s not like you’ve made it easier.”
He nodded. “That’s fair. I just need you to protect them. Especially her—from her own instincts.”
I frowned. “What?”
“Your mother doesn’t understand money. Or responsibility. Or accountability. She’s going to have to learn—but not by holding your future in her hands. You might look like her, and act like her sometimes,” he added with a chuckle at the face I made, “but you’re my son too. And I see myself in you.
“You’re smart with this stuff, Noah. You know how to make tough decisions. You’ve got the stomach for it. But you’re kind too. Compassionate. Your instincts are solid—you just don’t trust them yet. You ignore them instead.”
Of course I do. I was taught not to trust them.My eyes prickled, and I cleared my throat.
He kept doing this—again and again. Talking like he wouldn’t be here. Like he was starting to give up.
I fucking hated it.
Maybe this was the moment. The one where I told him everything. That I’d always been scared of her. That the fear never left, even when I was older, making me monitor her moods like weather patterns. That I was terrified of him dying—and the selfish part of me didn’t want to be left alone with her. Because it was the worst kind of alone—the kind that felt like it was your fault.
But he looked tired. And I couldn’t bring myself to add more to his weight.
“Lucky you’re here to teach me, then,” I said instead, forcing a smile and tipping my head toward the desk.
Another pause.
“Yes. It’s lucky.” He glanced at the desk, too, running a hand down his face. “It’s late, hijo. Let’s head to bed.”
He pushed off the floor and stumbled. I caught his forearm and helped him up, rising with him. His arm felt different. Brittle. Something I had never—not once in my life—felt from him. He’d always been solid. Unshakable. A steady rock in the middle of everything else cracking. And now he was the one splintering at the edges.
As I settled into bed, I reminded myself for the hundredth time today:this isn’t about me. I’m okay. Nothing is happening to me. Everything is fine.
A single tear slid down my cheek, warm and slow, until it reached my lip. I licked it away.
Then I turned my face into the pillow, rubbed it against the fabric, and pretended I didn’t know exactly why it was wet.
The morning after, I went to say goodbye before heading out. He was in the office. I knocked a couple of times, and when he didn’t answer, I pushed the door open.
He wasn’t in his chair.
