He did not laugh.
Then he said, “Can I sell my car?”
Tomás looked stunned.
“What?”
Diego swallowed.
“The car. The one Dad said was mine. Sell it. Pay part of what I owe Mariana. I can take the bus to school and work.”
Tomás opened his mouth, probably to protect him again.
Then closed it.
I studied Diego.
“You understand what that means?”
He nodded.
“My friends will ask.”
“And what will you say?”
He looked at me.
“The truth.”
That answer mattered more than the money.
The car sold two weeks later.
Not for enough to cover everything.
But enough to make the consequence real.
Diego gave me the transfer receipt himself.
“I know it doesn’t fix it,” he said.
“No. It starts fixing it.”
He nodded.
Then added, awkwardly, “My boss said I can pick up extra shifts.”
“Don’t fail your classes.”
“I won’t.”
“Don’t use exhaustion as an excuse to be rude.”
He almost smiled.
“You either.”
I raised an eyebrow.
He held up both hands.
“Joking. Bad timing.”
But it was the first joke between us that did not carry poison.
Months passed.
The national contract I won that morning changed my career.
I was promoted to regional commercial director.
My salary increased.
My responsibilities doubled.
But this time, I did not let that increase disappear into someone else’s denial.
I paid my own bills.
I repaired my SUV.
I rebuilt my emergency savings.
I hired a financial advisor.
And I told Tomás plainly: “My money is not family money unless we agree together.”
He struggled with that.
read more in next page
