Mauricio leaned back in his chair. “Oh, Alma, don’t be dramatic. The lake house belongs to the family.”
I looked straight at him. “Then pay for it with family money.”
That was when Veronica gave that short, poisonous laugh.
“Oh, please. You’re not even part of this family.”
The silence that followed was so dry I could hear the hum of the air conditioner.
For a second, I felt like I was fifteen again, realizing that in that house I had only ever occupied borrowed space. I was my father’s daughter from his first marriage. Mauricio was the cherished son, the chosen one, the future. I was the one expected to be grateful just to have a chair at the table.
And still, I had been paying.
For eighteen months.
Almost every month, I had transferred fifty thousand pesos. Sometimes more. Always for some emergency: “the mortgage,” “your father’s medication,” “helping Mauricio through a rough patch,” or “don’t tell Rogelio because it will affect his blood pressure.” The same urgent tone every time. The same ending too: you’re the only one I can trust.
So I lifted my glass.
