“Do exactly what I’m making you believe you deserve,” I repeated aloud, looking up at Mateo, searching for meaning I couldn’t reach alone.
Mateo leaned back this time, studying me again, as if trying to decide how much I was ready to understand in that moment.
“She knew you’d feel rejected,” he said, “she needed you to believe it, because if you came back too soon, he would know something was wrong.”
A cold realization moved through me slowly, connecting pieces I hadn’t known belonged together until now.
“So she hurt me on purpose,” I said, not accusing, just stating something that felt both unbearable and necessary.
Mateo didn’t answer immediately, and in that silence, I understood more than any explanation could have given me.
“She chose the only option that gave you a chance,” he said finally, his voice steady, but not without weight.
I nodded slowly, though nothing about this felt simple enough to accept without resistance, without the urge to go back and demand answers directly from her.
“I could drive back right now,” I said, the thought forming before I could stop it, before I could measure what it would cost.
Mateo’s eyes sharpened at that, his posture changing slightly, like he had been waiting for me to say exactly that.
“And then what?” he asked, not aggressively, but firmly, forcing me to follow that thought further than I wanted.
I opened my mouth, then closed it again, realizing I didn’t have an answer that didn’t end badly for someone.
The room felt quieter than before, like even the city outside had pulled back, leaving only the sound of my own breathing filling the space.
“If I stay,” I said slowly, “I leave her there alone with him.”
“And if you go back,” Mateo replied, just as slowly, “you might not leave again at all.”
The words hung between us, not dramatic, not exaggerated, just honest in a way that made them harder to ignore.
I rubbed my hands together, feeling the roughness of my skin, grounding myself in something real while everything else shifted around me.
This wasn’t about pride, or anger, or even the house anymore, it was about understanding what my daughter had already chosen for both of us.
“She sent me here for a reason,” I said, more to myself than to Mateo, trying to hold onto something steady.
Mateo nodded again, then reached into his pocket and placed something small on the table, sliding it toward me without a word.
It was a phone, old, simple, the kind that doesn’t draw attention, the kind you use when you don’t want to be found.
“She said you’d need this,” he explained, watching my reaction carefully, as if this was another test I didn’t know I was taking.
I picked it up, turning it over in my hands, feeling its weight, its simplicity, its purpose becoming clearer with each passing second.
“There’s one number saved,” Mateo added, “but you’re not supposed to call it unless you’ve already made your decision.”
I looked at him, confused again, though the confusion felt different now, sharper, more focused on what mattered most.
“What decision?” I asked, even though part of me already knew the answer before he spoke it aloud.
Mateo held my gaze this time, not avoiding it, not softening it, just letting the truth sit between us without disguise.
