My son was forty-two. I had cared for him through childhood illnesses, school, college applications, unemployment, and adulthood. I had babysat Gabriel so he and Carla could travel and spent five years pretending not to notice the ways his wife made it clear I embarrassed her.

Now he wanted me alone on Christmas Eve so Carla’s parents wouldn’t have to endure me.

“Does Gabriel know?” I asked.

Another pause.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“He’ll get upset.”

I closed my eyes.

“So you know it’s wrong.”

“That’s not fair.”

“What are you going to tell him?”

“That you have plans.”

I looked at the deed again.

Something inside me finally stopped begging to be chosen.

“All right,” I said.

Hugo sounded confused.

“What?”

“I said all right. Enjoy your dinner.”

“You’re not angry?”

“Would it matter?”

“Mom, don’t do that.”

“I’m not doing anything.”

“It’s not personal.”

“Of course not.”

I ended the call.

My name is Margarita Alvarez. I was sixty-nine that Christmas, widowed for fifteen years, with one son and one grandson. According to my daughter-in-law, my clothes, gifts, grocery stories, and appetite created social difficulties.

To anyone looking from outside, my life seemed ordinary.

I had rented the same two-bedroom apartment for eleven years, drove a seven-year-old Toyota Avalon, clipped coupons, shopped clearance racks, repeated dresses, and carried the same handbag for almost eight years because it still worked.

None of that bothered me.

It bothered Carla.

I first noticed at Gabriel’s fourth birthday.

I brought homemade tres leches cake because Hugo had loved mine since childhood. Carla had ordered a professionally decorated cake.

When I entered the kitchen, she smiled.

“Oh. You made one too.”

“I always make Hugo’s favorite for family birthdays.”

“We already have dessert covered.”

“I can take it home.”

“No, no. It’s fine.”

She said fine as though she meant unfortunate.

My cake was pushed to the far end of the counter.

By the end of the party, guests had eaten every piece.

Carla never mentioned it.

Another Christmas, I bought Gabriel a large construction set because he loved building cardboard bridges.

When he opened it, he hugged me.

Carla examined the box.

“Do you still have the receipt?”

Gabriel’s face fell.

“Why?”

“In case it breaks.”

“It’s not broken.”

“I know, sweetie.”

Then she looked at me.

“I just like having options.”

Minutes later, her parents gave him a weeklong family trip.

Carla made sure everyone understood how much planning it required.

I said it sounded wonderful.

Then she said, “See, this is why we try to focus on experiences instead of more stuff.”

Gabriel played with my construction set for eight months.

It was never one dramatic insult.

Carla preferred smaller ones.

Comments about my shoes, serving bowls, portions.