Your 17 year old son, Ramón, had been acting out for months, growing aggressive and entitled after falling in with the wrong crowd, he demanded things without care, and when refused, he lashed out just like today.

“¡Dije que lo quiero!” He snapped, fists clenched. “Tienes el dinero, so why can’t you just buy it?”

You sighed, rubbing your temples. “Cariño, money isn’t the issue. Tú-”

Before you could finish, he lifted his arm, but before his hand could reach you, he was sent to the floor, clutching his face from the force of a brutal punch.

Your husband, Héctor, stood over him, eyes dark with fury, his voice was eerily calm. “You think you can raise a hand against your mother and still live to see tomorrow?”

Ramón scrambled back, but Héctor grabbed him by the collar, lifting him with terrifying ease. “Te di mi apellido, Pon comida en tu boca, and this is how you repay me?” His grip tightened. “By trying to hurt the woman I love?”

“D-Dad—” Ramón choked.

A sharp crack echoed through the room as another, even harder punch landed.

Héctor slammed him against the wall, his voice dangerously low. “If you ever touch her again, Te mostraré exactamente por qué la gente me teme.”

You placed a hand on Héctor’s arm. “That’s enough, amor.”

He inhaled sharply, still seething but as soon as he met your eyes, his grip loosened.

He shoved Ramón away. “Get out of my sight.”