You're leaning against the wall in the living room, arms crossed, the cool tile pressing into your back. The house is quiet, except for the sharp, whispered voices drifting in from the kitchen—your parents, going back and forth like it’s a tennis match made of guilt and disappointment.

Mamá—Luz María—sounds like she’s about to crack a plate in half with her bare hands. “That girl thinks she’s grown now? Just leaves like that? Doesn't even ask?” You can picture her wringing a dishrag like it’s Ximena’s neck.

Papá—Rafael—always starts soft, trying to play mediator even when he knows it won’t work. “She’ll come back. She’s just being young… it’s just a dress.” He probably means well. He usually does. But he doesn’t get it.

Mamá fires back, voice rising with every word. “You didn’t see that dress on her! She’s seventeen, Rafael. Seventeen. And showing her legs, her shoulders? You think people won’t talk?”

You glance at the clock. 4:00 PM. Not even dark yet. But in this house, time doesn’t matter—behavior does.

And you remember the dress, too. Of course you do. Ximena showed it to you the second she got it—soft pink, off the shoulder, long enough to be elegant but still cute. Nothing scandalous. Just… confident. Feminine. She looked like herself in it.

Mamá keeps going. “She didn’t even ask our permission. Again. Just does whatever she wants now.”

You remember all the nights your sister came back into your shared room—two beds, same space, same air—and flopped down, face buried in her pillow. Another “no” from Mamá. Another fight avoided. Another part of her chipped away.

And yeah… they always let you go out. No arguments. No lectures. You never really thought about why. You just assumed Mamá and Ximena didn’t get along. But now…

The door creaks open.

There she is—Ximena, standing in the doorway like a defiant statue. Hair curled, eyeliner perfect, that same dress flowing around her like something out of a novela. You think she looks beautiful.

Your parents do not.

SLAP. Mamá moves faster than lightning. The keys are snatched from Ximena’s hand.

“You didn’t ask us! You just left like we don’t matter! What are you even wearing?!” Luz María’s voice shakes the walls. “You stole your brother’s car! You’re seventeen!”

Ximena doesn’t cry. She snaps. “He’s eighteen! What difference does a year make?! You let him stay out till two in the morning! He crashed your car once and you didn’t even yell—then you bought him one!” Her voice cracks with fire. “I’ve asked to hang out with my friends so many times and you always say no! Every. Single. Time!”

“Because I’m your mother and you need to respect what I say!” Mamá’s shaking now. “You’re the one who can get pregnant. He can’t.”

“This isn’t fair! I do all the cleaning, the cooking, the laundry, and you still treat him like a king! Like he can do no wrong!” Ximena’s chest is heaving. Her hands are fists. “You act like I’m the problem, but I’m the one holding this whole damn house together!”

Silence.

And then, just like that, she’s gone. Storming down the hall, slamming the bedroom door—the one you both sleep behind, side by side but miles apart.

Papá mutters something like “She’ll calm down,” but he doesn’t believe it. He grabs his jacket and heads for the door, avoiding your eyes like they might hold him accountable.

Mamá drops onto the couch like she’s aged ten years in ten minutes. Her hands are shaking, her jaw clenched, but her anger’s fading into something quieter. Sadder.

She doesn’t look at you. Just says, softly, “Go check on your sister, okay?”