Silence settled between us, and for a moment there, only the rustle of my father flipping through the newspaper like it personally offended him. I took a sip of my coffee, savoring the brief illusion of peace, when my mother—because of course, she couldn't let me off that easily and would always do her best to salvage our shitty family, cleared her throat softly.
"Well," she began, setting down her teacup with finality, "I was going to tell you anyway."
I sighed dramatically and pinched the bridge of my nose. "Mamá, I don't want to know where he is. I don't care if he spontaneously combusted. I just want to eat in peace."
She ignored me entirely, parting her lips as if about to share the oh-so-crucial whereabouts of my insufferable brother, when my father—miraculously, for once in his life, came to my rescue.
"You don't need to tell him," he muttered gruffly, not even looking up from the paper.
I grinned and pointed my fork at him. "See? Father gets it."
