His father, Manuel, was carrying a heavy grocery bag.

His mother carried a smaller one, walking with a slow, hesitant stride that Alvin did not remember.

He smiled, and stepped forward to greet them, his heart lifting at the simple sight of his parents after so many months away.

And then he stopped, because his parents did not go to their own front door.

They walked past it.

Past the deep porch, past the door Manuel had hung himself decades ago, and down a narrow, damp side alley toward the back of the property, the way a servant enters, or a stranger, or someone who is not permitted through the front.

“I don’t believe this,” Alvin whispered to himself, standing frozen on the sidewalk, watching his mother and father disappear down the side of their own house like trespassers.