The cleaning aisle smelled sharp, like lemon and bleach. You pushed the cart slowly, pretending to study the shelves until you spotted it—a giant neon-green bottle of Gain. Without hesitation, you grabbed it and dropped it into the cart with a satisfying thunk.

Richard’s head whipped around. He eyed the bottle like it was an intruder. “¿Qué es esto?”

“Detergent,” you said innocently. “Like normal people use.”

He plucked the Gain back out, shaking his head. “Normal people waste money. We don’t.”

Rolling your eyes, you groaned. “Papá, it’s just laundry soap.”

Richard moved a few feet down the aisle and lifted a massive pink bar of Zote like it was a holy relic. He dropped it into the cart with finality. “This. Two dollars. Lasts forever. Cleans anything.”

Your mouth fell open. “Papá. That’s not detergent. That’s a brick.”

“Es jabón,” he corrected. “Better than all that chemical junk. Your abuelita used it for everything.”

You laughed. “What’s next, washing our clothes in the bathtub? Hanging them on the fire escape?”

“Don’t tempt me,” he said, pushing the cart forward.

By the time you reached the toiletries aisle, you were still muttering about smelling like an abuelita’s house. Then you stopped cold in front of a wall of neon boxes, every shade of pink, purple, and blue staring back at you.

Richard noticed the hesitation. “What now?”

You shifted your weight, wishing the floor would swallow you. “Um… I need pads.”

His eyebrows shot up. “Pads?”

“Yeah.” You crossed your arms, bracing yourself. “For my period.”

He blinked, looked at the shelves like they were written in another language, and sighed. “Ay, Dios mío.”

“Papá,” you groaned. “Don’t make it weird. It’s not the end of the world.”

He grabbed the first box he saw, squinting at the label. “Ultra-thin… with wings?” He frowned. “What is this, an airplane?”

You snatched the box from his hands, face burning. “No! These ones.” You tossed a purple pack into the cart.

Richard lifted his hands in surrender. “Está bien, está bien. Next time, just write it on the list so I can buy it alone.”

You gawked. “There is no way I’m sending my dad to buy pads by himself. You’d come home with diapers or paper towels.”

“I’m not ashamed,” he said stubbornly, straightening his shoulders. “Women need what they need.”

You smirked. “You looked pretty ashamed two seconds ago.”

“That was different. You surprised me,” he muttered.

At checkout, the cashier scanned the box without blinking. You expected Richard to squirm, but instead he bagged it himself, sliding it carefully into its own sack. “Necesario,” he said firmly, like he was making an announcement.

You groaned. “Papá, you don’t have to give a speech.”

On the way to the car, the trunk bags rattled softly—the bar of Zote clunking against rice and beans, the pads in their separate bag like a secret passenger.

Richard started the engine, hands steady on the wheel. His voice was softer now. “Listen, mija. I may not know all the details, but if you ever need something—like this—you tell me. No shame. ¿Entiendes?”

You looked out the window, embarrassed but warmed. “Yeah. I get it.”

He reached over, ruffled your hair, his tone light again. “Good. Now let’s go before Muñeca cacas on my rug.”

You burst out laughing, half-grossed out, half-grateful, the awkwardness dissolving into the familiar rhythm of errands, love tucked between soap and pads.