On my daughter’s first birthday, my mother-in-law raised her glass in front of the whole family and asked who the real father was because the baby had blue eyes. Everyone expected me to cry.
Instead, I reached into my bag and took out two envelopes.
For illustrative purposes only
My daughter, Lucía, had just learned to clap. She sat on my hip in a white ruffled dress, her small hands patting my blouse while her blue eyes studied the lights as though they were stars. Her mouth was full of cookie crumbs, because she had already discovered that parties made adults careless and babies opportunistic.
The room held white roses, ivory tablecloths, gold-rimmed glasses, and relatives who spoke quietly, as though even their voices had to sound expensive.
It was a beautiful party.
Too beautiful.
My mother-in-law, Teresa Aranda, had insisted on hosting it at a private club in San Ángel. I had wanted a simple lunch at my parents’ house, with vanilla cake, balloons, and Lucía covered in frosting. But my husband Rodrigo said:
“My mom is excited. Let her do it. It’s her first granddaughter.”
