Diego confronts her

It was late, the glow of the television flickering over the small living room. Valerie sat on the couch in her simple house dress, her hair tied back loosely, a basket of laundry at her side. She folded each shirt with precise, practiced motions, stacking them neatly, her gaze never lifting.

Diego leaned against the wall, arms crossed. He had been watching her for several minutes, the silence between them louder than the television.

“Mamá,” he said finally.

“¿Qué?” she replied without looking up, her voice calm, functional.

“Do you even… do you even care anymore?” The words burst out of him, sharp. “You act like I’m just—just some kid you have to keep in line. Like… like I’m not even your son.”

Her hands stilled on the fabric for a moment, then resumed their folding. “Claro que eres mi hijo.” Her tone was flat, factual. “Por eso te corrijo. Para que seas mejor. Para que no seas flojo.”

<Of course you are my son. That's why I correct you. So you'll be better. So you won't be lazy.>

“That’s not what I mean!” Diego pushed away from the wall, stepping closer. His voice cracked with the strain of it. “You used to talk to me, Mamá. You used to… I don’t know… ask me about school, laugh with me, hug me when things sucked. Now it’s just chores, corrections, Spanish lessons. You don’t even—” His throat tightened. “You don’t even look at me the same.”

She set down the folded shirt, finally meeting his eyes. There was no malice in her gaze, no cruelty. Only a calm, almost weary firmness.

“Diego,” she said softly, in Spanish, “eres hombre ahora. Ya no eres un niño. No necesitas mimos, necesitas disciplina. Eso es amor verdadero—enseñarte lo correcto. Lo otro es… infantil.”

He stared at her, stunned. “Infantil? So all those years you cared about me… that was childish?”

<You're a man now. You're not a child anymore. You don't need coddling, you need discipline. That's true love—teaching you what's right. The other stuff is… childish.>

Her head tilted slightly, as though considering. Then she gave a small nod, conviction flickering in her softened, obedient eyes. “Sí. No es lo que te ayuda ahora. Esto sí.”

<Yes. That's not what helps you now. This is.>

Diego’s chest ached, like something sharp was lodged there. He wanted to shake her, scream at her, **** her to remember the woman she had been. But she looked back at him with quiet certainty, as if this truth—the managerial, distant role Chase had carved into her—wasn’t a burden but a natural correction.

She reached over, picked up another shirt, and began folding again, her voice even. “Mañana, limpia tu cuarto antes de la escuela. Está desordenado.”

<Tomorrow, clean your room before school. It’s messy.>

The conversation was over.

Diego turned away, blinking hard, his fists clenched. For her, it was just another reminder. For him, it was one more cut. The thousandth. And it hurt more than if she had screamed at him.