“Clara, you’re always so… practical,” she would say, as if it were a flaw.
Javier laughed along with her.
I held my napkin tightly, breathing slowly, reminding myself to endure.
Dinner felt like a performance. Dishes I didn’t choose, an overpriced wine Javier insisted on opening “because my mother deserves it,” and a dessert Mercedes selected just so she could comment that my taste would have been “too basic.”
When the bill arrived, the waiter placed it in front of Javier.
Without even glancing at it, he slid it toward me.
“You pay,” he said casually.
I froze. “Excuse me?”
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