Your mother’s lips trembled. “That was private.”
“So was throwing his clothes into trash bags two weeks after the funeral.”
A few people murmured.
You removed the next document.
Bank transfers.
Checks.
Large withdrawals.
Payments to Arturo’s construction supply company.
Payments toward Bruno’s college tuition in California.
A down payment on Arturo’s house in San Diego.
A luxury SUV in Bruno’s name.
You looked at Bruno.
“Nice graduation gift, by the way.”
His wife turned toward him sharply. “Bruno?”
He swallowed.
Arturo pointed at you. “You bitter little—”
“Careful,” you said.
Your voice was quiet.
That made it worse.
Because the room could hear you now.
Everyone could hear you.
You turned to your mother.
“Dad left me money too. Not through you. Through Aunt Elena. Six hundred twenty thousand dollars in a savings account under my name. That paid for school, rent, food, and the first tiny office of my design studio.”
Teresa’s eyes flicked around the room.
She was calculating damage.
Still not apologizing.
Still not grieving.
Still only measuring who had heard too much.
“You should have told me,” she said.
You stared at her.
“Why? So Arturo could call me a freeloader earlier?”
Her face hardened.
“Your father and I were married. That money was mine to manage.”
“Yes,” you said. “And you managed it into Arturo’s business, Bruno’s lifestyle, and a house where I slept in a converted laundry room.”
Bruno muttered, “You always exaggerate.”
You looked at him.
“You wore my father’s watch tonight.”
He froze.
Every eye moved to his wrist.
The watch was old, gold, understated, too elegant for Bruno’s loud suit. Your father had worn it only on special days. It had belonged to his father before him.
Your throat tightened, but you did not let your voice shake.
“That watch was not yours.”
