At that exact moment, Miguel walked in from the hallway carrying a tray of drinks.

He saw me and dropped it.

The crash silenced the room. Glass shattered across the hardwood. Someone gasped. Rosa’s hand snapped back from Carmen’s stomach as if burned. My mother set the cups down too carefully, the way people do when they hope controlled movements can make a disaster seem less real.

Miguel looked like a man who had just watched his life step out of the shadows. His mouth opened, but no words came.

Then Rosa whispered, not to comfort me or explain, but with raw irritation: Ana, you were supposed to be back on Friday.

That sentence hurt more than a slap.

I stared at Miguel and asked the only question my mind could form. Whose baby is it?