Chapter 10
I didn’t have a big party for my 64th birthday. I just set up a table in the workshop patio. Barbecue, consommé, freshly made tortillas, Güera’s green salsa, and a simple tres leches cake that Nico bought at the bakery in Narvarte. My grandchildren sang to me. Roberto raised his glass of soda. Mrs. Angela cried from the first verse.
Daniel reached the end. Only. Thinner. Without a watch. Without that pride that used to weigh him down. He stayed at the entrance of the workshop, not daring to cross. “Dad,” he said. Everyone remained silent. I looked at him. —Are you sober? -Yeah. —Are you here to ask for money? He denied it. —I’ve come to ask permission to congratulate you.
I didn’t open my arms to him. I didn’t close the curtain for him either. He walked slowly toward me and placed a small box on the table. Inside was a golden candle. “I didn’t bring it here for you to blow on,” he said. “I brought it here to remind myself of what I said.” Her voice broke. —I don’t expect you to forgive me today.
I took the candle. It was light. But it weighed a whole year. “That’s great,” I replied. “Because I can’t today.” He nodded. It hurt him, but he didn’t complain. That was new.
Sofia ran to hug him. Emiliano did too. Lucia, who had arrived with them, stayed at a distance. Life hadn’t been fixed. It wasn’t a movie. It wasn’t a reconciliation with music. He was just a man learning not to destroy what he claimed to love. And a father learning to love him without handing him the keys.
When it was time for the cake, I put the gold candle on top. I turned it on myself. The flame flickered in the workshop air, amidst the scent of grease, cilantro, coffee, and sweet bread. I looked at the faces around me. My workers. My grandchildren. My lawyer. My neighbor. My son, standing in the back, crying silently.
May you like
I thought of Teresa. In his blue shirt. In their red flowerpots. In the safe that was open that morning.
Then I closed my eyes. I didn’t ask to live forever. I asked to continue being the master of my days. I blew. The candle went out. This time nobody muttered anything cruel. And if anyone thought that, it didn’t matter. Because my wish had already been fulfilled since that night when I understood that an inheritance is not worth more than peace. Not even a child is worth allowing them to bury you alive.
