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She takes the wine, examines the label, and raises an eyebrow. “This is a forty-dollar bottle of wine.”

“Forty-two fifty, actually,” Preston says. “If we’re going to be family, let’s be accurate.”

The corner of Elena’s mouth twitches. She kills it immediately, sets the bottle on the counter. “Tax included?”

“Obviously not. What am I, a barbarian?”

“I’m Elena. I’m an accountant. I check every price.”

“Then I genuinely cannot wait to see you in action. Bring your calculator to Sunday dinner. Audit me.”

Mamá appears from the bedroom, carrying a stack of towels for Elena’s stay and a look of supreme satisfaction. “You see, Preston? She’s practical. Lucas, move. You’re standing between me and my stove.”

Dinner’s at the small table – the one that seats four if two of the four don’t mind their elbows touching. Pasteles, arroz con gandules, tostones. Preston eats everything with focused enthusiasm – he learned early that not finishing Mamá’s food is a declaration of war. Elena eats like she hasn’t eaten properly in weeks, which she probably hasn’t, and when I look at her plate and then at her – the sharpness of her collarbones, the way the flannel hangs looser than it should – something tightens in my chest.

She’s not fine. She’s not going to say she’s not fine. And if I ask, she’ll deflect with a joke, because she learned that from me, and I learned it from Mamá, and Mamá learned it from a lifetime of holding things together by refusing to name the things that were falling apart.

“How’s the job search?” I ask, because I can’t not ask.

“Incredible. I’ve been rejected by fourteen firms. Twelve sent form letters, and two of those used the same template, Lucas. The same one. I ran a document comparison. One firm rejected me on behalf of a different firm – that’s not a hiring process, that’s a Ponzi scheme of disappointment. One sent a personalised rejection, which I actually appreciated. It showed initiative. Attention to detail. A real commitment to crushing me specifically. And one ghosted me completely, which I’m choosing to interpret as them being so intimidated by my qualifications that they couldn’t formulate a response.”

“Elena–”

“I’m fine, Lucas. I have a plan. The plan is: apply to everything, eat Mamá’s food, and resist the urge to throw my laptop into the East River.” She spears a tostón. “It’s a three-step plan. I’m on step two. Step two is going extremely well.”

“You could come work at the hospital,” Preston offers. “The Foundation always needs–”

“No.”

She doesn’t look at Preston. She looks at her plate.

“Thank you,” she adds, quieter. “But no. I didn’t spend five years in Seattle to come home and take a handout from my brother-in-law’s family’s charity. I’ll find something. On my own.”

Preston nods. He doesn’t push. He takes a tostón from the plate and says, “These are extraordinary, Mamá. What’s in the seasoning?”

“Love,” Mamá says. “And garlic. A LOT of garlic.”

The conversation moves on. But I catch Elena’s hand under the table – quick, a squeeze, and let go. She squeezes back.

That’s enough.

Elena lasts six days at Mamá’s.

I get updates from both of them, independently. Mamá’s texts are factual and serene: Elena is settling in. She ate breakfast. She is using the desk. Elena’s texts are increasingly unhinged: She reorganised my suitcase. She reorganised my SUITCASE, Lucas. While I was in the shower. She folded my underwear into triangles. TRIANGLES.

Day two: She made me a lunch. I didn’t ask for a lunch. I’m twenty-six. She put it in a bag with my name on it and a post-it that said ‘eat by 13:00 or it spoils.’ I’m not going anywhere, Mamá. I’m sitting on your couch. Where would it spoil?

Day three: She labelled the leftovers. MY leftovers. With my name and the date and – Lucas, I swear on my CPA – a NUTRITIONAL BREAKDOWN. Calories. Protein. Fibre. She put a macronutrient profile on a container of arroz con pollo. I love this woman but I cannot live like this.

Day four: She asked me where I was going. I said the bodega. She asked which bodega. I said Reyes. She asked what I was buying. I said chips. She asked what kind. I said Doritos. She said ‘the nacho cheese ones give you heartburn’ and then CALLED MR. REYES TO TELL HIM NOT TO SELL ME THE NACHO CHEESE ONES.

Day five: She put a curfew on the WiFi.

Day six: If I don’t leave this apartment I’m going to end up on the news. Not the good news. The other news.

The knock comes at 22:30 on a Wednesday. We’re not expecting anyone, and the timing’s bad. I find my shirt. It takes longer than it should. Preston says a word I’ve only heard in trauma bays.

I open the door. My shirt’s on backward – the tag scratches my throat. Nothing to be done about it now.