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Then he sees the neighbors gathering. He sees the police. He realizes the town is watching.
He steps outside.
The officers separate everyone.
A female officer kneels beside Lucerito, speaking gently. Lucerito’s eyes fill, but she nods, whispering things you can’t hear.
The other officer asks your parents questions. They try to minimize, out of habit, out of fear.
You open your laptop from your bag right there on the table and log into your bank app.
Your heart pounds as you pull transaction history. Fifteen years of “support.”
And then, the withdrawals.
Patterns.
Transfers to Tomás’s accounts. Payments for bars, hotels, electronics, even trips to the city.
Your stomach turns when you see the total.
Not thousands.
Hundreds of thousands.
He didn’t just steal.
He built a life with your parents’ suffering as the foundation.
When the officers see the records, the tone changes.
Tomás gets handcuffed in front of the house.
He screams, “They’re lying!” He spits your name like it’s a curse.
But you don’t flinch.
Because now the truth has witnesses.
Child services arrives for Lucerito.
Your mother clings to her, sobbing, begging. “Don’t take her,” she pleads. “She’s all we have.”
The social worker’s voice is gentle but firm. “We’re not taking her away,” she says. “We’re taking her somewhere safe. And we’ll work with you.”
Lucerito looks at you, eyes huge.