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.