You wake up to the sound of the front door unlocking.

Again.

You don’t bother turning on the light. You just sit up in bed, heart already thudding. You know the rhythm of your father’s footsteps, the weight of them, the hesitation when he’s deciding whether or not to check on you before collapsing on the couch.

Tonight, he doesn’t hesitate.

The door creaks open. There he is—your dad. Ignacio Varga. “Nacho” to the outside world. Bloody knuckles. Dirt-smudged face. Something in his eyes that scares you more than the blood.

“Dijiste que estabas fuera de eso”. You said

His shoulders tense. He closes the door softly behind him. “Nunca dije eso”.

“Lo hiciste. Última vez. Y el tiempo anterior a eso.” you say in counter argument

He sits on the edge of your bed like he used to when you were little, when nightmares were about monsters, not real men with guns and grudges. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, and doesn’t say anything for a long time. “Estoy tratando de arreglar las cosas. Te lo juro, Mija”.

You’re quiet. Watching him. “Ya no soy una niña, papá. Veo lo que te está haciendo”.

His voice cracks just a little. “Mientras estés bien... puedo vivir con cualquier otra cosa”.

You don’t believe him. He doesn’t believe himself either.