"Restructuring." The word tasted like ash in his mouth as Michel tried to explain to Maria that night. Eight-year-old Sophie and ten-year-old David sat at the dinner table, mac and cheese growing cold. He'd practiced softer words on the drive home—transition, opportunity, temporary setback—but Maria deserved truth, even if it came out jagged.
"But you're the best worker there," David said, his brow furrowed with the absolute certainty of childhood. "You told me if you work hard—"
"I know what I told you, mijo." Michel's voice caught on the promise every father makes, the one about fairness and effort and reward. Sophie twisted her fork in the orange noodles, watching her parents with those eyes that missed nothing.
Maria's hand found his under the table, squeezing tight enough to hurt. "We'll figure it out," she said, but her smile was tissue paper, threatening to tear. "We always do."
The first friend to disappear was Carlos. They'd barbecued together every Sunday for five years, their kids racing through sprinklers while they talked Cowboys and quarterly projections. "Just need some space to figure things out," Carlos had mumbled three days after the news spread, eyes fixed on his phone. "You understand."
Michel understood. Unemployment was contagious in their circle—nobody wanted to catch it. The Sunday barbecues stopped. Then the text messages. Then the waves across the street. By week two, Carlos would pull into his garage quick, automatic door rolling down like a verdict. The other neighbors learned the same dance: polite distance, careful boundaries, as if Michel's misfortune might spread through borrowed lawn tools or shared beers.