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And when Tomás notices, he laughs.
“Oh, don’t start with the dramatics,” Tomás says, waving a hand. “They’re tired. Let them rest.”
You turn your head slowly, staring at him.
“Don’t speak for them,” you say.
Tomás’s smile falters for half a second.
Then it returns, sharper.
“You always thought you were better,” he says. “Leaving town like you’re too good for dust. Now you come back in that suit to judge us.”
Your hands clench.
This isn’t about pride. It’s about stolen years.
You take another step, close enough now that you can smell Tomás: cheap cologne and cigarettes, the scent of someone who spent your money on comfort while your parents slept on earth.
“You managed their accounts,” you say. “You said you’d help with the bank. You said you’d make sure they had what they needed.”
Tomás’s eyes flash. “And I did,” he snaps. “I paid bills. Bought food. Fixed things.”
You gesture at the cracked walls, the rusted roof.
“This?” you say. “This is what you fixed?”
Tomás’s lips press tight.