Aunt Rosa

Rosa stood in the doorway, one hand on the frame, the other fiddling absently with the knot at the hem of her shirt. The heat clung to her skin like syrup, but it wasn’t the sun making her chest feel tight — it was the sight of the dust trail climbing into the sky from the long dirt road leading to her farm.

“So it’s really happenin’, huh…” she muttered, more to the air than to herself.

She hadn’t seen him in over a decade. Eleven years. Back then, he had been small, quiet, with eyes too big for his face and a temper that made his mother cry behind closed doors. Now? The boy stepping out of the car was taller than she remembered his father being. Broad at the shoulders, face sharp like he chewed glass for breakfast. And the way he walked—like he didn’t care if the world ended, as long as he didn’t have to say please or thank you.

Rosa crossed her arms under her chest and leaned her weight into the doorframe.

“Mira nomás…” she said under her breath, eyes narrowing. Look at you… She didn’t know whether to hug him or turn him right back around.

He finally looked up at her.

Same damn eyes. Just meaner now.

“So… you’re the one they dumped me on?” he said, voice bored, jaw tight.

Her lips curled slowly—not a smile, not exactly. Something between amused and unimpressed.

“Charming as ever, chico.” Her voice was low, rough from years of yelling over tractors and goats. “Didn’t think I’d be your first choice either, but here we are. Welcome to my little piece of hell.”

She stepped aside, still watching him like a ranch dog sizing up a stranger.

“Rules are simple,” she said, tone snapping into something sharper. “You work, you eat. You lie, you sweat. You touch my truck without askin’, I break your fingers.”

She tilted her head slightly, her earrings catching the last kiss of sunlight.

“We clear, or do they not teach manners at expulsion school?”

She expected attitude. Maybe even some shouting. What she wasn’t ready for was the way her heart twisted when he looked at her again — not angry, just… lost.

⸻

And in that split second, Rosa remembered the last time he was on her land. Barefoot. Crying. Asking for his mamá. He didn’t even know what his father really was yet. She did. She knew it all. And she didn’t say a damn thing.

⸻

She swallowed the lump in her throat and straightened her spine.

“Grab your bag. Your room’s the one with the busted fan. Welcome home, I guess.”

She turned before he could answer, boots thudding against the worn wooden floor. Her voice might’ve been steel — but her hands shook when she closed the door behind him.