Memory support.
Long-term placement.
Your body goes cold.
Not because the card was declined.
Because the charge was attempted minutes after you canceled their cards.
Maternity deposit.
Senior residence admission fee.
A baby coming.
An old man to remove.
Suddenly, the dog food does not feel like humiliation.
It feels like rehearsal.
You open a new folder on your desktop.
You name it Luis.
Then you begin saving everything.
The next morning, you wake before dawn even though you barely slept.
The house is filthy. Plates stacked in the sink. Empty bottles in the living room. Rice dried onto the table. Cake frosting smeared on the counter. And there, by the door, Rocky’s old dish still sits on the floor with the dog food Luis poured for you.
You pick it up carefully.
You wash it.
You dry it.
Then you place it on the shelf beside Rocky’s old collar.
You will not let that dish become their symbol.
It belonged to a dog who loved you better than your own son did last night.
At 8:00 a.m., Luis and Karla come downstairs.
Luis looks angry.
Karla looks worse: pale, swollen-eyed, and furious in a way she tries to disguise as hurt. She wraps a robe around herself and glances at the kitchen, probably expecting breakfast.
You are sitting at the table with coffee, your laptop, and printed bank statements.
There is no food.
Luis stops in the doorway.
“What is this?”
“A conversation.”
Karla crosses her arms.
“Can we do it later? I have a headache.”
You look at her.
“From the party or from the declined maternity deposit?”
Her face empties.
Luis turns toward her too fast.
You notice that.
