Four — The Podium
There are things you can’t fully prepare for.
Marcos knew this — he had talked with Patricia for hours, had practiced what he was going to say, had organized his thoughts with the same care he brought to organizing Tomás’s school schedule, the warehouse shifts. He had thought through the objections that might be raised and the answers he had for them. He had prepared.
And then Tomás stood up with him.
This was not in the plan. Marcos looked at him and Tomás looked at him, and in that exchange of glances Marcos understood that trying to make Tomás stay seated in this specific moment was not something that could be done without too high a cost, and so Tomás walked with him to the podium and stood beside him, and when Marcos began to speak Tomás put his arms around his waist and his face against his side and began to cry — not dramatically, not for the room, but the way an eight-year-old cries when he can no longer hold back — silently, with his whole body, as if crying from somewhere very deep inside himself.
Marcos put a hand on Tomás’s back.
And he began to speak.
“I don’t know how to do this correctly,” Marcos said. His voice was unsteady but present. “I don’t know the legal words. Patricia explained some of them to me but I’m not a lawyer and I’m sixteen years old and what I know is this.”
Judge Varela said nothing.
The room was very quiet.
“I know the system says we need an adult. I know there are rules about who can be a guardian and that sixteen years isn’t enough on any piece of paper. I’m not here to say the rules are wrong. I’m here to say there’s something the papers can’t say.”
Tomás trembled slightly against him. Marcos pressed his hand more firmly against his brother’s back.
“Tomás eats when I cook. Not always, but when I cook. He eats mac and cheese on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and rice with chicken on Fridays, and French omelette on Saturday mornings with the grated cheese because he says it’s different from sliced cheese and he’s right, it is. He eats when I’m there. That’s not in any file.”
A pause.
“When our mother died, Tomás didn’t speak for three weeks. Not to anyone. He started talking again when I sat with him at night with the dinosaur book and read to him about the triceratops and the brachiosaurus. Not because I’m special. But because I’m his. That’s not in any file either.”
Marcos breathed.
“I know I can’t be his legal guardian. I know I’m not old enough at sixteen for that. But there’s a foster family Patricia has found who says they can take me too, and I have a job and I would contribute, and what I’m asking this court — what I’m asking you, Your Honor — is not to separate us. Not because I can replace what we lost. But because we are what we have.”
The room.
The silence.
Tomás’s hand squeezing harder.
And then Marcos said, in the voice of someone who has prepared this phrase and is also discovering it in the moment of speaking it, of someone who believes it with every part of himself he has built over the last eight months:
“I have no parents. But I can take care of him.”
