Sometimes repair tastes like burnt chicken.
Two years later, you turn seventy-two.
This time, there is no surprise party.
No crowd.
No dog dish.
No performance.
Luis asks what you want.
You tell him, “Dinner with people who remember whose birthday it is.”
He invites Silvia, Arriaga, two old friends from your accounting days, and a few neighbors. He cooks with Silvia supervising because nobody trusts him alone with rice. He buys a cake with his own money, and the receipt sits proudly under the box.
Before dinner, he stands.
Everyone quiets.
His face reddens, but he keeps going.
“Two years ago, on my father’s seventieth birthday, I behaved like a cruel, useless man. Some of you know that. Some of you heard versions. I won’t repeat the details because my father lived them once already.”
The room goes very still.
