Last night my son hit me, and I didn’t cry. This morning, I set out the fine tablecloth, prepared breakfast as if it were a special occasion, 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.

—I didn’t hit her, —Diego spat. —It was an argument.

—You hit her.

—It was a push.

—You hit her.

Diego let out a bitter laugh and turned toward me.

—So now you’re going to put my dad on top of me? How brave.

—I called him because last night I realized I couldn’t handle this alone anymore, —I replied.

He froze. Perhaps because, for the first time, he heard me without that trembling voice that had always made him feel invincible.

Roberto opened the folder and took out the first sheet.

—This is a request for a temporary protection order. It hasn’t been filed yet. It depends on what you do today.

He placed a second sheet on the table.

—Here is the cancellation of your access to your mother’s accounts. From this moment, you will not use her card, you will not touch her money, and you will not drive her truck again.

He drew a third.

—This is a legal notice to prevent you from returning to this house if you leave and do not respect the conditions.

Finally, he left a folded leaflet next to Diego’s plate.

—And this is a reserved spot in a residential center in Arteaga. Intensive therapy, anger management, evaluation for substance abuse and domestic violence. Your mother agreed to give you a chance before formally reporting you.

Diego looked at me as if he didn’t recognize the woman in front of him.

—Do you want to lock me up? Do you think I’m crazy?

—No, —I told him. —I think you’ve become dangerous.

Fury rose up his neck.

—Dangerous? After everything they did to me? After he abandoned us?

Roberto stood slowly.

—I’m not here to talk about my divorce with you. I’m here because you hit your mother.

—You don’t know anything!

—I know a lot more than you think, —Roberto said. —I know you quit jobs. I know you sold things from the house. I know you’ve been taking money from your mother for months. I know you’ve kept her living in fear.

That last one shifted something in the air.

Diego turned toward me.

—Afraid? Did you really say that? That you’re afraid of me?

I didn’t answer immediately.

Because it was the truth.

Fear of his footsteps.

Fear of his tone.

Fear of guessing his mood before deciding whether I could speak or remain silent.

—Yes, —I finally said. —I’m afraid of you.

His face softened for barely a second, then hardened again.

—Of course. Now everyone’s against me. It’s always the same. I’m the problem, right? It never mattered how I felt when he left. It never mattered that I was left behind. They never cared about anything.

It hurt to hear, because amidst his anger, there was truth. Roberto and I had made mistakes. I had been too protective. He had distanced himself. Diego had grown feeding off those cracks.

But one injury does not justify abuse.

—We cared, Diego, —I said. —We cared so much that we let you destroy this house rather than confront you.

—You have no idea what I’ve been carrying, —he murmured, voice breaking.

—Then say it, —Roberto replied. —Say it without shouting, without breaking anything, and without touching anyone.

Diego opened his mouth, closed it, clenched his fists. I thought he might overturn the table, laugh, slam the door, storm out. He did none of those things.

He just looked down.

—I kept sinking, —he finally said. —And nobody pulled me out.