You imagined your mother looking older, softer, maybe even sorry. You imagined Arturo quieter, humbled by time. You imagined yourself handing over the gift and saying, I don’t need an apology tonight. I just need to know whether you still have a heart.
But your mother had called you a freeloader.
In front of fifty people.
And Arturo had called your gift cheap.
So you smiled.
That scared them more than tears would have.
“You’re right,” you said softly. “Maybe this gift is too small.”
Arturo laughed. “At least you know.”
You opened the box.
The lid made a tiny sound, barely noticeable beneath the hum of the air-conditioning and the nervous shifting of guests in their chairs.
Inside, resting on black velvet, was a silver key and a folded document with a blue legal seal.
Your mother glanced at it with bored irritation.
“What is that supposed to be?”
“A deed,” you said.
Bruno’s smile faded slightly.
Arturo reached for his glass again. “A deed to what? A parking spot?”
That got a few laughs.
You let them laugh.
You had learned long ago that people reveal the most when they believe they are winning.
You lifted the document.
“A condo in Boston,” you said. “Two bedrooms. Paid in full. Back Bay. No mortgage. No liens. No debt.”
The room changed.
Your mother’s hand froze on her pearls.
Arturo’s glass stopped halfway to his mouth.
Bruno sat up.
Someone whispered, “Back Bay?”
