“What do you want me to do?”
I sat down.
Not because I was calm.
Because if I kept standing, I might say something too cruel to take back.
“I want you to call the insurance company and tell them the truth. I want Diego to pay for the damages himself. Not with money from me, not from your credit card, not from some fake business account. I want him to understand what things cost.”
Tomás went still.
“If we tell the insurance company he did it intentionally, they may not cover it.”
“I know.”
“We don’t have that kind of money.”
“No, Tomás. You don’t have that kind of money.”
He closed his eyes.
“Mariana…”
“And I want access to every account related to your business by tonight. Every loan, every debt, every unpaid supplier, every card.”
His eyes opened.
“Why?”
“Because I’m done paying for a hole I’m not allowed to measure.”
His face hardened slightly.
“It’s my business.”
“And it became my burden.”
He looked away.
There it was.
The shame again.
Always shame.
Never accountability until he had no other option.
I stood.
“Where is Diego?”
“In his room.”
“Call him.”
Tomás hesitated.
“Mariana, maybe give him time.”
“I gave him years.”
He called him.
Diego came downstairs ten minutes later. His cheek was still red. He had changed clothes, as if a clean hoodie could erase the morning. His eyes were swollen, but his jaw was tight with the stubbornness of someone who wanted to feel wronged because guilt was too uncomfortable.
He stood across from me.
“I didn’t know,” he said.
It was not an apology.
It was a defense.
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