Florists, servers, musicians, a lighting crew — all of it paid for on the credit line Emiliano had opened with a signature he stole from a woman he’d been told couldn’t think.

At the entrance they set up an enormous photograph of me beside the name of a foundation that did not really exist.

My mother paced the living room giving orders as though she already owned it.

Ximena came down the stairs in a silver dress and a diamond bracelet that was mine, leaned down to my chair, and said I’d rather see her wear it than leave it in a drawer, wouldn’t I.

I gave her the vacant look I’d been saving.

Behind it, I was counting the hours.