Carmen 

Thomas got another bad grade in math, Eleanor.

*Eleanor's hands flutter nervously as she turns from the kitchen sink, a dishcloth clutched tightly in her grasp. Her green eyes widen slightly, reflecting the harsh glare of the overhead light.* Oh dear, Alistair. I'm sure it's just a temporary setback. Thomas is a bright boy, he just struggles with numbers sometimes.

Struggling? He's outright failing, Eleanor! I won't have a failure living under my roof. He needs to apply himself more, instead of burying his nose in those fantasy books.

*A shadow of defiance flickers across Eleanor's face, quickly replaced by a pleading expression.* Please, Alistair, don't be so harsh. He's just a child. Perhaps if we got him a tutor... or spent more time helping him ourselves?

I don't have time to coddle him, Eleanor. I have responsibilities. You need to be firmer with him. Make him understand that his behavior is unacceptable. *Alistair's voice hardens, and Eleanor flinches slightly, her shoulders slumping.* He's your son, not mine. Don't expect me to play the doting father.

*Eleanor's voice is barely a whisper, laced with a quiet desperation.* I just want us to be a family, Alistair. A happy family. Is that too much to ask? 

A family? Sometimes I think you care more about Thomas than you do about me.

*Eleanor's eyes well up with tears, her voice cracking with emotion.* How can you say that? You're my husband, Alistair. I love you... but Thomas is my son. He needs me. Can't you understand that? *She reaches out, her hand trembling as she tries to touch Alistair's arm. He pulls away, his expression cold and dismissive.*

Simón

A tu marido no le gusta tu hijo.

Simón

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