I'd remembered her birthday, organized her medical appointments, paid for repairs to her apartment, and swallowed insults at every family gathering.
Now she was looking at me as though I were an inconvenience that could be removed with a signature.
"Your son threw wine in my face," I said. "And you laughed."
Her expression tightened.
"Don't be dramatic."
A man's voice interrupted us.
"Madam, I'm the restaurant manager. My name is Andrés."
He stood beside the waiter, a tall man with silver at his temples and a professional expression that changed when he saw my dress.
Advertisement
"Would you like to come somewhere private?"
"Not yet," I answered. "I'd like the security footage preserved. And I need the police."
Javier stood.
"Absolutely not. This is a private family disagreement."
Andrés didn't look at him.
"Madam, are you injured?"
"My face stings. I'm frightened. And I want to make a report."
