He frowned.
“If I still lived in my apartment and owned nothing else, would I deserve respect?”
“Yes.”
“Exactly.”
“So they were wrong before they knew and after they knew.”
I smiled.
“Exactly.”
We toured the house.
In the library, he looked at the financial books and property binders.
“Dad said you’re a businesswoman.”
“I manage investments and properties.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because when I’m with you, I like being Grandma.”
He thought about it.
“You can be both.”
“Yes. I can.”
Over the next few weeks, Hugo called often.
Not for favors.
Not for money.
He asked questions.
About Armando’s investments, property finance, my childhood, my friends, and what I actually did during the days he assumed I was simply shopping.
One Saturday, while sorting photographs, he held a picture of Armando and me outside our first apartment.
“I stopped seeing you as a person.”
I looked at him.
“You were just Mom.”
“Then start asking.”
He did.
Carla was different.
Her first messages were defensive apologies.
I wish you had told me my comments bothered you.
We all made mistakes.
I didn’t answer.
A month later, she asked to meet alone.
I agreed.
She came without makeup or her usual polished confidence.
“I started therapy.”
“Why?”
