Alex was five the first time he really understood what "broke" meant.
It was a cold December night, the kind where the wind snuck through the cracks in the apartment walls and made the windows rattle. The lights had gone out again. Maria sat at the kitchen table under the glow of two half-burned candles, counting change by their flickering light.
Quarters mostly. Some dimes. A few crumpled singles.
Alex sat on the floor nearby, playing with an old toy truck that was missing a wheel. He watched his mom's face the way her lips moved silently as she stacked the coins, the way her shoulders sagged a little more with every small pile.
"Mommy, why's it dark?"
Maria looked over and forced a smile. It didn't reach her eyes.
"Electricity bill came, mijo. We'll get it back on soon. Come here."
He climbed into her lap, small arms wrapping around her neck. She smelled like laundry soap and the diner where she worked days.
"We're gonna be okay," she whispered into his hair, like she was telling herself as much as him. "Always okay."
Outside, gunshots popped in the distance two, then three. Alex didn't even flinch. He was used to it. Maria did, though. Just a little.
She finished counting. Twenty-three dollars and eighty-seven cents.
Enough for milk, bread, and part of the electric bill. Not all of it.
Alex pointed at the candles. "Is it my birthday?"
Maria laughed, soft and tired. "No, baby. Your birthday's in October. Remember? You turned five two months ago."
He nodded, but his eyes stayed on the flames. "Can we pretend? Just a little?"
Maria's heart cracked open right there. She reached into her apron pocket and pulled out the last quarter she'd saved. She placed it in his small hand.
"Make a wish anyway."
Alex closed his fist around the warm coin, squeezed his eyes shut, and blew toward the candles like they were cake.
I wish we never have to sit in the dark again.
He didn't say it out loud. He was five. He already knew some wishes were too big to speak.
Later, when he was asleep on the couch under her old coat, Maria stared at the dark window. She thought about the night he was born the storm, the crying baby in her arms, the man's broken voice down the hall saying a name she'd never forget.
James.
She didn't know why it stuck with her all these years. But it had.
And now her son carried it.
Alexander James Rivera.
She pressed her lips to Sofia's soft hair, then looked toward Alex's sleeping form.
One day, she whispered into the quiet apartment like a promise.
One day, I'll make sure he never has to count quarters by candlelight again.
Neither of them.
Ever.