The thought is so ugly your mind rejects it at once.
Not Esteban.
Not your husband who rubs menthol into your mother’s shoulder when her arthritis flares. Not the man who once drove three hours through a storm to pick up your cousin when her car broke down outside Tlaxcala. Not the man who folds grocery bags and lines them up under the sink with almost obsessive neatness. Esteban is not cruel. He is not reckless. He is not one of those men whose darkness clings to them like cologne.
And yet.
The look this morning. The way Lucía avoided his eyes. The light at the door. Her head moving into its path.
All day, the thought follows you through the house like a second shadow.
That afternoon, as you hang damp sheets along the roofline, your mother joins you with a bucket of clothespins. “The neighbors are talking again,” she says.
You clip one corner of the sheet harder than necessary. “They always are.”
“This is different.” She lowers her voice. “Mrs. Delgado said her daughter claims she saw Lucía going into your room after midnight carrying a pillow. Twice.”
You keep your expression neutral. “And?”
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