By nine o’clock, grace had curdled into embarrassment.
By nine-fifteen, embarrassment became dread.
And by nine-thirty-six, when your phone lit up with an Instagram notification instead of an apology, the last fragile structure inside you gave way.
You tap the screen.
Your oldest son, Roberto, has gone live from a yacht off Puerto Vallarta.
The video opens on music, laughter, too many expensive teeth, and a bottle of tequila that does not belong to your company. There are your children. All three of them. Their spouses. The older grandkids running in and out of frame. Roberto red-faced with drink and triumph, an arm slung around his brother like betrayal is some family sport they finally perfected. Then he lifts his glass, grinning straight into the camera with your father’s jaw and none of your father’s honor.
“Let’s toast the old dictator,” he shouts. “He’s probably sitting there alone with his money!”
The others laugh.
Martín raises a bottle from the competitor who has been circling your distribution lines for eighteen months. Elena leans into the frame with the lazy, venomous smile she always wore before saying something cruel and pretending it was wit.
“Maybe he’ll leave the company to his ego,” she says.
