Page 125 of Espíritu

Enrique was surprised by Yadriel’s words, but frustration was hot on its heels. “I was trying to protect you,” his dad insisted. “I’m your dad, and it is my job to keep you safe, along with the rest of our community. This is serious, Yadriel. It’s not—”

“I don’t need protection!” Yadriel snapped, voice cracking. “I need trust!”

Enrique looked stunned. His brows drew together, mouth parting slightly like he wanted to argue but couldn’t find the words.

“I know I’m not perfect,” Yadriel said, his chest heaving. “But I’m trying to do what’s right. To be what you raised me to be. I can’t do that if you keep treating me like I don’t belong in the room.”

The words hit the air like a step off a ledge—no taking them back now.

“If you trust me, then put me in the room when decisions happen. Let me help—show me what to do, how to protect our people.”

Yadriel paused, swallowing hard. His throat burned—from the cold, from the night, from holding back so much for so long. He didn’t want to cry.

But the truth ached in his ribs.

All he wanted—needed—was to be seen. Not as a kid who needed to be protected. But as someone trying his best to carry the weight that had been put on his shoulders.

Lita stood and touched Enrique’s arm gently. “Quique…”

“We’ve been on the same side this whole time,” Yadriel went on. “But we’ve been acting like we’re not. Not working against each other but not working together, either. That has to change.”

For a long moment, Enrique didn’t move. The silence stretched, thick and heavy, broken only by the distant sound of a broom being dragged across the floor outside the door.

Then Enrique exhaled sharply and dropped into one of the wooden chairs like his legs couldn’t hold him anymore.

“I’ve been afraid,” Enrique said at last, voice low, rough.

Yadriel blinked. Afraid?

“I see how much you’ve grown. How much you’ve taken on,” Enrique continued. “You’re not a kid anymore. You’ve been through things most people never come back from—and you’re still standing. That scares me more than anything.”

His dad looked up at him now—really looked—eyes full of fear and something closer to awe.

“I thought if I could keep you out of the worst of it, maybe I could keep you safe. I didn’t realize what I was doing was the opposite.”

Yadriel looked down, his fists slowly unclenching.

There it was. Not pride—respect. Not comfort—acknowledgment. Finally, Enrique saw him not as someone to protect, but someone who had already survived the worst and come back with the scars to prove it.

And not just by luck. Not just because he was brave.

Because Lady Death had chosen him.

They’d finally let him in the room. They just hadn’t learned to trust him once he was there.

Yadriel’s dad gave a dry, brittle laugh—not bitter, just hollow. “And to make it worse, I knew something was wrong. I saw the signs. I felt the shift in the cemetery. Lita warned me. Miguel said something didn’t feel right. And I still kept it quiet.”

He scrubbed a hand over his face.

“I told myself I was protecting you,” he went on. “That if I could handle it alone, maybe you wouldn’t have to. But the truth is … I didn’t trust you to carry it. And that’s what I can’t stop thinking about.”

He looked down at his hands, flexing them slowly. “You’ve been carrying it anyway. Without help. Without guidance. And doing it better than I ever gave you credit for.”

Yadriel stood frozen, heart pounding.

Enrique shook his head, lifting his gaze again. “You were already in this. Chosen by Lady Death herself. I should’ve trusted you to stand beside us, not tried to shield you from something you were already strong enough to face.”

He sat back slightly, the weight of his own words pressing into him.