"Yes, it works," I replied, pouring myself some coffee. "It's just not for you anymore."
An oppressive silence fell.
—Are you sick? Is it all last night's fault?
—No. All this for thirty years of putting up with you.
Then came family dinner. My mother asked us to "talk without exaggerating." I brought bank statements, screenshots, usage logs, and, of course, the photo and the suit. I laid them out on the table.
"Did you give this to your sister for her birthday?" my father asked, pale.
“It was a joke,” said Ricardo, now less convinced.
"And how long was I supposed to put up with his jokes?" I asked.
My mother, as always, chose the most convenient phrase:
