For a moment Dad didn’t move.

He stared at me like he had just heard a language he refused to believe existed.

Then his jaw tightened.

“Who,” he asked slowly, “is ‘his mom’?”

“Luis’s mother,” I said. “Rosa.”

The name hung between us.

Dad’s nostrils flared slightly as he looked down the street toward the apartment buildings.

“The car you’re talking about,” he said calmly, “is the one you’re paying for?”

I looked down.

“It’s registered under Luis’s name,” I admitted. “He said since I’m living under her roof, she decides who gets to use it.”

Dad blinked once.

“You’re living under their roof?”

Heat climbed up my neck.

“After Luis lost his job, we couldn’t keep our apartment. His parents said we could stay until things got better.”

“And in exchange,” Dad said flatly, “they take your transportation.”

I didn’t answer.

Mateo shifted sleepily against me while my ankle throbbed harder with every second.

Dad gently took the grocery bag from my hand and opened the passenger door.

“Get in.”

“Dad…” I started, panic already tightening my chest. Panic about what Luis would say. About what Rosa would say. About how they always managed to make me feel like every problem was somehow my fault.

Dad cut me off without raising his voice.

“Camila. Get in the car. We’re fixing this tonight.”

Something in his tone—steady and certain—tightened my throat.

Still, I hesitated.

Fear becomes a habit after a while.

He stepped closer and lowered his voice so only I could hear.

“Daughter, you’re limping down the street carrying my grandson because someone wants you to feel trapped.”

My eyes burned.