Last night my son h!t me and I didn’t cry. This morning I got out the nice tablecloth, served breakfast like on special occasions, and when he came downstairs smiling he said, “So you finally learned your lesson”… until he saw who was waiting for him at my table

Then his voice came back, steady, firm.

“I’m on my way.”

I didn’t sleep. By four in the morning, I was already cooking—chilaquiles, beans, eggs with sausage, coffee. I brought out the good plates, the ones I saved for holidays, and laid out the embroidered tablecloth I only used for special occasions.

It wasn’t a celebration.

It was a decision.

A little before six, Michael arrived. His hair was grayer, his coat dark, a folder tucked under his arm. He didn’t ask unnecessary questions. He looked at my face, at my hands, and understood everything.

“He’s upstairs?” he asked.

“Asleep.”

He glanced at the table.

“You only cook like this when something big is about to change.”

For the first time in a long time, I felt seen.

“It ends today,” I said.

He set the folder down.

“Then tell me—does he leave today?”

I closed my eyes. I saw Ethan as a little boy, scraped knees, bright smile. Then I saw him last night, hitting me and walking away like I didn’t matter.

I opened my eyes.

“Yes. Today.”

Michael nodded, opened the folder, and laid out the documents.

Right then, we heard the stairs creak.

Ethan was coming down.

And he had no idea what was waiting for him.

Ethan walked in, yawning, hair messy, confidence intact. When he saw the table, he smirked.

“Looks like you finally learned how things should be,” he said, grabbing food without asking. “About time.”

I didn’t react. I simply placed a cup of coffee in front of the chair.

That’s when he noticed.

The tortilla slipped from his hand.