Rafa’s throat closed. Nino took Norma’s hand. Rafa took the other.
Rafa placed the cake on the table. He lit a single candle. The three of them—the faded groom, the forgetful bride, the exhausted son—sat in the yellowish light. Nino began to sing “Happy Birthday” in a broken tenor. After a moment, Rafa joined in. Norma watched them both, her head tilted like a curious sparrow. El hijo de la novia
Rafael Belinsky, 42, stood in the frozen food aisle of a Buenos Aires supermarket, having a panic attack over a box of mushroom risotto. His phone buzzed. His daughter, Lila, had sent a photo of her university application. His ex-wife’s name was on the credit card alert. His accountant was texting about the restaurant’s third straight month in the red. Rafa’s throat closed
“I’m a restaurateur . There’s a difference.” Rafa placed the cake on the table
“You’re my son. There’s no difference. Tomorrow. Three o’clock. The nursing home.”
“I know, Pa.”
The line went dead.