Sunday

By the time Sunday morning came, Diego was almost relieved to hear his mom moving around in the kitchen before he woke—at least there was the hope she’d be in a better mood.

He shuffled in, rubbing his eyes, and found her leaning against the counter with her coffee again, the sunlight catching in her hair. She was dressed casually—soft tee, loose sweats—but the way she looked at him was anything but soft. It was appraising, deliberate, like he was a puzzle she’d decided to take apart piece by piece.

“Morning,” he muttered, heading for the fridge.

“Mm,” she replied without looking away, taking another sip. “Big plans today? Or is this another ‘practice for a lifetime of mediocrity’ kind of Sunday?”

His hand froze on the milk carton. “…Seriously?”

She smiled faintly. “What? I’m just curious if you’re aiming for anything, or if you’re going to keep perfecting that couch imprint.”

He slammed the fridge shut a little harder than necessary. “You’ve been on my case all week.”

Her smirk deepened. “And? You gonna cry about it?”

That tone—light, amused, but carrying a sting that hit square in his chest—was becoming familiar. Too familiar.

When he brushed past her to get a glass, she stepped slightly into his path so he had to angle around her. “Watch it,” she murmured, but it wasn’t a warning—it was a little flex of control, a reminder that she could occupy his space whenever she wanted.

The rest of the morning followed the same rhythm: little quips, pointed looks, each one perfectly timed to trip his temper or make him second-guess himself. And she watched every reaction like she was cataloging them, storing them away for later.

Diego was glad when she left around lunch time. She didn't saw where she was going and he didn't ask. He was just happy to see her leave.

He tried not to think about her harsh and taunting words, so he focused his attention on gaming the rest of the day.

When his mom returned that evening Diego was still on the couch, gaming, hoodie up, his plate from lunch sitting on the coffee table.

Diego was on the couch, gaming, hoodie up, his plate from lunch still sitting on the coffee table.

“Really?” she said, arching a brow. “You’ve been home all day and you can’t even clean up your mess?”

Her tone wasn’t her usual tired-mom scolding. It was sharper. Mocking.

Diego mumbled something without looking up from his game.

She stepped forward, snatched the controller right out of his hands, and hit the power button. The screen went black.

“Hey! What the hell, mom?!”

“Oh, poor baby,” she said with a sarcastic pout. “Did I ruin your little game? Maybe I should call Chase over so you can cry to him instead.”

Diego froze at the name, glaring at her.

Valeria smirked. Oh, that got under his skin.

“You know, it’s funny,” she continued, pacing slowly in front of him like a predator, “Every time I look at you lately, I keep wondering how someone so… pitiful… came from me. I mean, look at you. Sitting there in your wrinkled hoodie, smelling like chips. Honestly, Diego, you’d be the perfect punching bag if we were back in high school.”

He stared at her, mouth slightly open. “What is your problem?”

Her smirk widened. “Problem? No, mijo… I’m just being honest. And you should thank me for it. The world’s not gonna coddle you forever.”

She tossed the controller onto the couch beside him, turned, and walked toward the kitchen—her hips swaying just a little more than necessary.

In Valeria's head, she was replaying the whole thing. The way his face tightened when she said “pitiful.” The satisfaction of seeing him speechless.

It was exactly how she’d imagined Val would do it.

And she no longer felt even a flicker of guilt.