The following months were hard. Camila and Andrés ended up separating. It wasn’t because of me, although she tried to blame me; it was because, as my son confessed to me, at that dinner he realized they hadn’t built anything together, just a facade. Doña Elvira never apologized to me, and I didn’t expect her to. Camila did apologize, some time later, with a long letter that I read only once and put away in a drawer. I don’t know if I’ve completely forgiven her. I know I no longer hold a grudge.
Today, when I think of that night, I don’t remember the clatter of dishes or the averted glances. I remember my son crossing the room, leaving behind a table laden with expensive glasses, to sit with me. I remember his hands on mine. And I understand that there are luxuries money can’t buy: the luxury of being loved by the one you raised, the luxury of dignity, the luxury of knowing that, even if you’re sometimes relegated to the worst table in a restaurant, there will always be someone willing to get up and come sit beside you.
