My name is Arturo Santander. I’m seventy years old, and I used to believe that being a father meant swallowing discomfort for the sake of family.
That belief ended on a Tuesday morning—the day my daughter woke me up and told me, calmly, like she was rearranging furniture, that I had to vacate my bedroom.
“Dad, you’ll need to move to the back room,” she said. “Andrés’s parents are coming to live with us, and they need the master bedroom.”
Those were her exact words.
What she didn’t know was that while she was speaking—while she was asking me to leave the room where I had slept for forty-five years—I was already making the most radical decision of my life:
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