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A bank card with your name. Another one. And a glossy ID card from a private club in the city you live in.
Your stomach drops.
You realize Tomás didn’t just steal money.
He stole your identity.
You stare at him. “How did you get those?”
Tomás freezes.
Your father whispers, broken. “He made us sign papers.”
Your chest tightens. “What papers?”
Your mother’s voice is a shred. “He said the bank needed… authorization. He said it was for your transfers. He said if we didn’t… you’d stop sending.”
Your vision blurs with rage.
Tomás recovers and smirks. “Old people don’t understand paperwork,” he says. “It’s not my fault.”
You step closer, voice shaking. “So you took my money and made my parents beg you for it.”
Tomás shrugs. “They were helpless.”
The word helpless hits you like a knife.
Because you’ve been picturing your parents living comfortably, grateful, proud of you.
Instead, they were hostages.
The little girl suddenly speaks, so small you almost miss it.
“He locks the pantry,” she whispers.
You turn, heart pounding. “What?”
She looks at your mother like she’s asking permission to speak. Your mother covers her mouth, shaking her head in fear.
But the girl is tired of fear.
“He locks the food,” she repeats, a little louder. “And he says Grandma has to ask.”
Your stomach twists into something sharp and sick.
Tomás snaps, “Shut up, Lucerito!”
The girl flinches and shrinks back.
That’s it.
Something in you goes quiet.
Not calm.
Focused.