“No, no, no!” Your father cried out, gingerly running his finger tips over the splintered wood. You had been playing with his guitar in secret — accidentally breaking the neck in half.

“¿Qué has hecho?” He inquired desperately, brows furrowed as he met your gaze. Javier was furious. The guitar meant everything to him — a gift from his mother whom he’d never see again.

You were young, he understood this. But it took every inch of his being to not shout further.