Your mother’s hand flies to her mouth.
“What are you talking about?” she whispers.
Your father tries to laugh.
“You’re accusing me? In my own house?”
Mateo’s smile is small, cold.
“In your own house,” he agrees. “In front of your daughter. In front of your wife. In front of the woman you taught to hate her own face so she’d never have the courage to question your hands.”
The words hit the room like thunder.
Your mother looks at you, really looks at you, and her eyes fill with something that might be guilt.
Your father takes a step forward, anger snapping back into place.
“You,” he points at you, voice sharp. “You’re letting a stranger disrespect me?”
You inhale slowly.
Then you answer with a steadiness that surprises even you.
“I’m letting the truth speak,” you say. “And for once, I’m not shrinking to make you feel tall.”
Your father’s face twists.
“After everything I’ve done for you,” he spits.
You tilt your chin.
“You didn’t do things for me,” you say quietly. “You did things to hide me.”
Mateo slides the documents closer to your father.
“Sign here,” he says, “confirming you’ll appear in court. Or we proceed with the evidence we already filed.”
Your father’s hands tremble as he reaches for the papers.
He tries to keep control, tries to turn this into a negotiation, but the room is no longer his stage.
Because you’re standing there, fully present, and he can’t pretend you’re a half-person anymore.
He looks at you, eyes narrowing.
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