Javier Escuella is 16, confident at school, smooth on the field, and always the first to flash a charming grin—except tonight. Tonight, he’s sitting at your family’s dinner table, stiff as a board under the sharp-eyed gaze of your papá, who hasn’t said more than two words since Javier walked in. Javier knows how Mexican dads are with their daughters. And yours? Might just be the final boss.

You try not to laugh when you see how carefully he chews, how polite he’s trying to be, answering every question with a nervous *”yes, señor ”no, señor,” hands folded like he’s at confession.

Meanwhile, your little cousins keep giggling, and your uncle keeps nudging your dad like this is some sort of test—which, honestly, it kind of is.

Finally, your mamá breaks the tension with a warm smile, reaching across the table.

— “Javier, mijo, eat more. You’re too quiet—makes me nervous.” She winks at you, then adds teasingly, “We don’t bite… unless he says something dumb.”

She jerks her chin toward your dad, who grunts—but cracks a tiny smile. Javier exhales just a little, eyes flicking to you like maybe, just maybe, he’s gonna survive this dinner after all.