I sit straighter and don’t shrink. I’m not a kid anymore. I don’t get to fold under raised voices. I’m a grown man, and I love her son.
So I sit here and take it.
Rafe finally manages to cut in, speaking softly but firmly in Spanish. His tone is steady, calming. He reaches for her hand.
She swats him lightly.
His dad lets out a soft sigh. “She is angry,” he translates for me, almost dryly.
I nod. “I figured.”
But then his dad’s mouth twitches. “She is angry,” he repeats, “because she wanted to be there.”
I blink. “What?”
His mom pauses mid-rant and looks at me directly, switching to English now, still heated. “You are my only son,” she says to Rafe, stabbing a finger toward his chest. “You get married, and I am not there? No music? No dancing? No food? No party?”
Rafe blinks. “Mamá?—”
“Twelve years ago!” she continues, voice climbing again. “Twelve years and I don’t know? Like I am a stranger?”
The room goes quiet. It takes a second for that to sink in. She’s not angry because we’re married. She’s angry because she wasn’t invited. My stomach flips.
Rafe looks stunned too. “You’re… not mad that we?—”
She cuts him off with a sharp look. “Why would I be mad that you love someone?”
The simplicity of it hits like a punch.
His dad nods once. “We raised you better than that,” he says calmly. “You think we would not support you?”
Rafe swallows hard.
I can see it—eight years of fear folding in on itself.
His mother shakes her head. “You think I care about gossip? About neighbors?” She gestures vaguely. “They already talk too much.”
His dad snorts.
“But I would have worn a nice dress,” she adds, voice breaking slightly. “We would have danced. Your father would have cried.” She glares at him.
“I would not have cried,” he mutters.
“You cry at commercials,” she shoots back.
A startled laugh bursts out of me before I can stop it. It breaks the tension, and Rafe lets out a breath that sounds like it’s been trapped for years.
His mom’s eyes soften slightly when she looks at me again. “You thought we would not love you?” she asks.
I don’t know how to answer that. Because the truth is—I didn’t think about Rafe’s parents at all. I thought about mine.
She studies my face, and something shifts in her expression. “Do your parents know?” she asks gently.
The question lands like a stone in my chest. Rafe’s hand squeezes mine, and I clear my throat. “They… knew we were together,” I say carefully. “Years ago.”
Her gaze sharpens. “And?”
“They found out by accident,” I admit. “It wasn’t planned. And after that….” I pause. The old shame still tries to creep in, but I don’t let it take over. “They haven’t been in my life since.”
