Page 4 of The Silence Between

“Where's Dad?” I asked Mari, taking the baby food from her hand. “I thought he'd be home.”

“He had a job interview,” she explained, wiping sticky hands on her jeans. “And Mom called. The factory needs her for another shift.”

I nodded, swallowing disappointment. Dad had seemed motivated this morning, talking about fresh starts and opportunities. I'd wanted to believe him.

“How was school?” I asked Mari, lifting Sophie from her high chair. The baby immediately stopped crying, burying her face against my shoulder.

Mari's face clouded. “I don't like my teacher,” she confessed in a small voice. “She makes me read out loud and everyone laughs at my accent.”

Something hot and protective flared in my chest. “Your accent means you're twice as smart as them,” I told her, bouncing Sophie gently. “You speak two languages. How many do they speak?”

A small smile tugged at her lips. “Just one.”

“Exactly.” I handed Sophie back to her. “Now, you hold her while I make dinner. Did you do your homework?”

Mari nodded. “Most of it. I need help with math.”

“After dinner,” I promised, moving to the small kitchen area. I opened the refrigerator, assessing our options. Not much—some eggs, half a block of cheese, tortillas. The grocery money would have to stretch until Mom got paid next week.

“How about huevos rancheros for dinner?” I suggested.

“With hot sauce?” Diego piped up, suddenly interested now that food was mentioned.

“Just a little,” I said, pulling ingredients from the fridge. “Mari, can you set the table?”

For the next hour, I moved through the familiar routine—cooking, cleaning, helping with homework, getting Diego and Sophie bathed and into pajamas. The apartment was small but clean, every surface wiped down, toys confined to their bins, dishes washed and put away. Mom insisted on keeping it spotless, regardless of how exhausted she was when she came home.

“A clean home means dignity,” she always said.

By nine o'clock, I'd managed to get all three kids to bed in the apartment's single bedroom. Diego and Sophie shared the small bed, while Mari had a mattress on the floor. Mom and Dad would take the pull-out couch in the living room when they got home.

I sat at the kitchen table under the harsh light of the single overhead bulb, textbooks spread before me. The clock on the microwave read 9:47 PM. My eyes burned with fatigue, but I had reading to catch up on and math problems to complete.

An hour later, Mom stumbled through the door. Her uniform was stained with ink from the packaging floor, and her limp was so pronounced she had to brace herself against the wall.

“Mijo,” she said, surprise coloring her voice. “Still awake? It's so late.”

“Homework,” I explained, standing to take her lunch bag. “How was work?”

She waved away the question, moving past me to peek into the bedroom. “The children?”

“Fed, bathed, homework done. They're asleep.”

Relief softened her features as she returned to the kitchen. “You're such a good boy, Leo.” She pressed a kiss to my forehead. “Have you eaten?”

“Yeah, hours ago.” I didn't mention that I'd given most of my portion to Diego, who'd suddenly decided he was “starving” after finishing his own plate.

“And your father?”

“Not home yet.”

Something flickered across her face—worry, resignation, I couldn't tell which. “His interview was at two.” She sighed, sinking into a chair. “He'll be home soon, I'm sure.”

I didn't argue. We both knew what “not home yet” likely meant, but neither of us wanted to say it aloud. Dad wasn't drinking again. He was networking. He was following a job lead. He was anywhere but at a bar trying to drown the shame of unemployment.

“Go to bed, mijo,” Mom said, noticing my drooping eyelids. “School is more important than waiting up.”

“I'm almost done,” I lied, not wanting her to sit alone. “Just a few more pages.”

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