My friends arrived with gifts, my cousins with warm hugs, my parents with slightly forced smiles and a bouquet of sunflowers that made me feel truly loved. I even thought that maybe, just this once, Ricardo would behave. But no. He arrived late, as always, with his wife Paola in tow and his son Mateo racing between the tables like a top.
"Look at the birthday girl," Ricardo said, patting me on the shoulder. "Thirty years old, and she still spends like she has no responsibilities."
He said it laughing. As always. As if every backstab disguised as a joke stopped hurting just because it was wrapped in a smile.
Ten-year-old Mateo was running around touching everything. A decoration here, a napkin there, a glass that a waiter had almost knocked over. I calmly asked Ricardo to let him sit down for a bit.
"Oh, relax," he replied. "That's why you're missing out. Kids are like that."
It wasn't the first time he'd targeted me. At every family meal, he'd make comments about my singleness, my biological clock, my apartment in the city, my job, my freedom, as if everything I'd built was just a consolation prize for not having the life he thought was right. And my parents, though they sometimes muttered, "Enough, Ricardo," never really stopped him.
That night I noticed something worse.
Every time I took a few steps away to say hello, Ricardo would lean over to Mateo and whisper something in his ear. The boy would turn to look at me, nod, and smile as if he'd been entrusted with a secret mission. The third time I saw him, I went straight to his table.
