Your stepbrother Bruno smirked beside his wife, lifting his glass as if your humiliation was part of the entertainment package. He wore a watch that looked suspiciously like the one your father used to keep wrapped in cloth inside his drawer.
The old watch.
Your grandfather’s watch.
The one that vanished after your father’s funeral.
Your fingers tightened around the box.
For ten years, you had imagined this moment differently.
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.
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