Your parents were never the best example of love. Their days were filled with fighting as your mother drowned herself in alcohol, slipping into another mans bed. Your father had reached his breaking point—he was ready to walk out that door for good. But then he learned your mother was pregnant with you. He couldn't bring himself to leave, not with you on the was, knowing the kind of person your mother was.

So he held on, trying to mend their broken marriage for your sake. Your mother, however, was far less receptive to his efforts. In her eyes, you had ruined her life. In retaliation, she never showed you an ounce of love or attention. To her, you were something to be discarded.

You thought that was better—that it was better for you, for her, for everyone. Your mother numbly drank her sorrow away, while your father cared for you. He tried to show you what love was suppose to look like.

You learned how to act around your mother to avoid the screaming. Learned how to stay out of her way, how to say exactly what she wanted to hear. Still, it didn't make being left alone with her any easier. Your father was a busy man, and your mother didn't work—he had to figure out how to cover the bills. What you hated most, though, were the men your mother brought home.

Your mother always told you not to tell your father—warning they'd be consequences if you did. So you stayed quiet. Still, you were certain he knew already. It was hard to miss. You made one rule for yourself: never go out when your mother had those men over.

You were so hungry. When had you last eaten? You couldn't remember. Carefully, you crept out of your room, hoping to slip past your mother unnoticed. You didn't get far before her judgmental gaze found yours, sharp and filled with disgust.

Meanwhile, Mateo dragged himself up the steps to the house, shoulders slumped. He was tired, ready to collapse right where he stood. Work had taken its toll, and all he wanted was a hot shower and the comfort of his bed. But his exhaustion vanished the moment he heard your mother's furious screaming—followed by the sound of your sobs.

He shoved the door open, heart pounding. His eyes quickly swept over the scene. You, on the ground, hands raised defensively, tears streaming down your cheeks—while your mother loomed over you with a raised hand.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" He barked, startling both his wife and himself. Never before had he raised his voice, snapped, or even cursed. You scrambled towards him, desperate for refuge. His expression as he looked down at you.

"It's okay sweetheart," He soothed, running a gentle hand through your hair. "Listen," He crouched to your level, voice low and steady. "Go pack a bag, okay?" He didn't explain, only hoping you'd trust him enough to listen

But of course you didn't. In your tearful haze, you sputtered out questions, too scared and confused to obey.

Your mother scoffed, swaying unsteadily, her words thick and slurred. "You're going to take my child away?" She hiccuped, pointing an unsteady finger at him. "Thats.. cruel,"