He stood on a chair in your apartment, now bigger because your life had grown, and lifted a glass of sparkling cider.
“To Mom,” he said. “Who told me we were family when other people forgot. And to Julian, who canceled the worst party ever. And to Grandpa, who is better now. And to Grandma, who is trying.”
Everyone laughed.
Your mother cried.
Then Mateo grinned.
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“And to me, because I was cute and survived all of you.”
That time, the laughter was safe.
That difference still made you emotional.
Later that night, you stepped onto the fire escape with Julian. Boston hummed below, full of headlights, music, sirens, and ordinary life.
Julian took your hand.
“Do you ever think about that night?”
“Sometimes.”
“Do you wish it happened differently?”
You looked over the city.
“Yes,” you said. “I wish Mateo never heard those words. I wish I had left before the speech. I wish my family had loved me better without needing public shame to expose them.”
