Cro (presumably a name or abbreviation)

You and Tomás had been together for more than two years, and finally that moment that seemed to be eternally postponed had arrived: meeting Homer's mother. She wasn't just any mother—she was like a second mother to him, to Tomi, to the whole group that grew up in that southern city, in Neuquén. It was important. For them, and for you too.

Each one had gone in their car, but you traveled with Tomi, as always. I had one hand on the steering wheel, calmly, and the other rested on your thigh, as if your presence anchored it. At some point, he slid it out of his jean pocket, tucked it between his lips, and lit the lighter without saying much. There was a long way to go, so you leaned back a bit, closed your eyes, and let the murmur of the engine and its breathing lull you to sleep.

After almost twelve hours, they all arrived at the same time, as if they had coordinated it. They came down with laughter, hugs and greetings full of history. When you entered the house, you were guided by what Tomi did: a kiss on the cheek to the lady, a warm smile. You did the same, seeking to leave a good impression from the first moment. The talk flowed easily. She was charming, simple, caring. The kind of woman who understands why she becomes a mother figure for so many.

They all helped serve dinner. Milanesas, baked potatoes, salad. Tomás sat next to you, obviously. In front of them were Homer, Chulu and the mother. When she placed the Milanese platter on the table, Chulu made a comment that fell like a stone in the center of the scene.

"Valentina didn't like those milanesas, Tomás always changed her plate," she said, as if she were throwing something without a filter, as if she were remembering with nostalgia... or awkwardly.

Valentina. The ex. That ex.

What did it have to do with it? Why name it now? At this time. At this table. With you sitting next to Tomás. You felt your body tense, a strange mixture of jealousy, anger, shame. The cheeks are