A few days went by. Diego tried to shrug off his mom's behavior. Most of the time she acted normally, if maybe a little on edge, even cold. Maybe something was bothering her?
Saturday he was on the couch, scrolling through his phone, when his mom walked in with a cup of coffee. She didn’t say anything at first—just stood there, sipping, watching him.
“What?” he asked without looking up.
“That’s how you’re spending your day?” she said finally, an eyebrow raised. “Sitting there like a little lump?”
He rolled his eyes. “It’s the weekend, Mom.”
She tilted her head, smiling in a way that made his stomach tighten. “Weekend or not, you could at least try not to look like the poster boy for failure.”
He froze. That wasn’t the kind of thing she usually said.
When he didn’t respond, she walked over and ruffled his hair—hard enough to mess it up completely—then laughed when he pulled away. “Oh relax. I’m just having fun,” she said, but the way her eyes glittered made it clear she was enjoying how flustered he looked.
The rest of the day, she seemed to keep finding excuses to jab at him—teasing him about the way he walked, mocking the movie he chose to watch, even imitating his voice when he complained.
By the time dinner rolled around, Diego realized she hadn’t once given him that warm, encouraging smile she always used to. Instead, every interaction had some trace of mockery… and she liked it. He could see it in the way her lips curled just a little higher when he bristled.
It almost felt like she was… testing something. Pushing a line.
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