“Your sister is coming with her husband, so you’ll be staying in the rooftop room.”
My mother said it without pausing, while putting away the dishes as if she were asking me something simple. No apologies. No hesitation. Just that cold, familiar tone my family had always used to decide for me.
I had just arrived at my parents’ house in an old part of Zapopan, with a suitcase, a backpack, and months of exhaustion. In their eyes, I was locked in my room doing “computer stuff.” To my father, it meant I had no purpose. To my mother, it meant I didn’t understand anything about real life. To my sister Daniela, I was an example of what not to become.
“Don’t make that face, Sofía,” said Daniela casually, sipping her drink. “It’s just one evening.”
Her husband, Arturo, let out a small, mocking laugh, a laugh intended to humiliate her.
“It’s cooler up there anyway,” he added.
Cool.
The rooftop terrace was a cramped space with a corrugated iron roof, furnished with an old folding bed, dusty cardboard boxes, and a wheezing fan that barely worked. In the May heat, the place felt more like a place of discomfort than a haven of peace.
My father glanced at his newspaper.
“Don’t make a fuss, Sofía. You should be grateful that we’re letting you stay here a little longer.”
A roof.
Not a house. Not even a room — just a place to exist.
