Part 1 — The Weight of Sunday Evenings
Sunday nights in Guadalajara always felt heavier than they should have. At exactly 7:00 p.m., Daniel Moreno turned off his car outside his ex-wife’s house in Tonalá and repeated the promise he made to himself every week: Just pick up Mateo. Twenty minutes. Then you’re done.
The door opened, and Mateo, nine years old, stepped out with his backpack slung over one shoulder—moving wrong.
Too careful.
Too slow.
Like the ground might punish him if he made the wrong move.
Daniel felt it in his gut before he even spoke.
“Hey, champ… why are you walking like that?” he asked, forcing his voice to stay light.
Mateo lifted his head and tried to smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes.
“I’m okay, Dad. Just tired.”
When Daniel opened the back door, Mateo froze. He stared at the seat like it was a challenge he wasn’t sure he could face. He tried to sit—and pain flashed across his face before he could hide it. He perched stiffly on the edge, leaning forward the entire drive as if the seatback burned.
Daniel kept talking because silence felt dangerous.
“So… what’d you do this weekend?”
Mateo swallowed. “Nothing. Stayed home.”
“Played?”
“Yeah… ran around.”