I was speechless. I looked at Andrés, searching for something, a sign, a gesture of defense, but my son’s gaze was fixed on the floor. I felt my legs tremble, but I didn’t want to make a scene. I nodded slowly and let myself be led to a small table against the wall, next to the kitchen door, where the clatter of dishes was constant and the waiters’ footsteps brushed against my shoulders.@@@
From there I could see Camila’s family perfectly, toasting, laughing, raising tall glasses of red wine. Andrés was among them, forcing a smile that I, his mother, knew by heart: the smile he wore when something hurt inside and he didn’t dare say it. My son’s mother-in-law, Doña Elvira, spoke loudly, telling stories of her last stay in Madrid and how important it was to “surround yourself with people of the same caliber.” Every now and then, her eyes met mine, and she quickly looked away, as if staring at my table were contagious.
I ordered soup. I wasn’t hungry. A lump formed in my throat every time I tried to swallow. I thought about getting up and leaving, taking a taxi home, crying in my room where no one could see me. But something inside me, an old and stubborn sense of dignity, made me stay seated, back straight, like when I used to sew for sixteen hours straight to pay for a semester of college.
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