Beto had never liked that Nathan owned the laundromat, but on some level, he understood it. Nathan’s grandfather, Tomás, had started a billion-dollar corporation by purchasing a small Oaxacan coffee farm from his wife’s family. Tomás’s father was a banker who opened a chain of grocery stores that eventually became a subsidiary of Vasquez Industries. Being a true Vasquez meant taking ownership of your life and never answering to anyone but your family. Even Joe, burning through the days to keep their father happy, would never truly be respected until Beto decided he was ready to be CEO.
When Nathan told Beto he bought the laundromat, his father’s face had shown a rare glimmer of respect. But in his excitement, Nathan let it slip that he planned to use the basement as an art studio, and Beto had immediately dismissed the business as the whim of a spoiled son “too lazy to commit to something real.”
Beto moved to the head of the table and said, “Come sit down. All of you. I didn’t call you all here to chat in the hallway while my food gets cold.” Nathan chose the chair farthest from Beto. Sofia sat at the opposite end of the table, while Joe claimed a seat in the space between them.
Joe went straight for the vegetables. Nathan stacked his plate with as much food as it could contain and vowed to spend the rest of the evening silently chewing and swallowing. It wouldn’t be hard. The food was delicious. His mother hired only the best chefs to feed her family.
“Still got that appetite, I see.” Beto speared a piece of chicken. “Both of you look good—healthy. Are you still working out together?”
Joe glanced at Nathan, who bit into a bread roll instead of responding. “Yeah, we are,” Joe said. “Every other morning, I drag this one out of bed for a run. We lift at Abel’s Gym.”
“Nathan, you’re getting so big,” Sofia said. “Nice broad shoulders.” She glared at Joe’s plate. “It must be all that meat.”
Joe started grumbling about a late conference call and glanced at his watch. Nathan shoveled down more food, mentally drafting excuses about why he had to leave early. Beto recaptured their attention with a raised palm. “So, I asked your mother to extend this invitation because I wasn’t sure you would accept one from me.”
“You were right,” Nathan muttered and stabbed a potato. Joe gave him a look that would have been a kick under the table if they weren’t separated by an ocean of mahogany wood. Nathan took a breath and tried to soften his voice. “So, what’s going on?
Beto picked up his wine and took a long drink. He eyed his wife and children over the rim and took a deep breath. “I’m dying,” he said. “It’s a brain tumor. Inoperable. I’ve got… I don’t know… a few months. Maybe more, maybe less.”
Nathan’s fork slipped, crashing to his plate. He stared at the splattered mess and thought, This is just like Beto. Ruining dinner before anyone can enjoy it. But then he looked up and saw the truth in Joe’s horrified expression. Beto had a tumor. His father was dying.
“Wait,” Nathan said, and tried to push more air through his lungs. “That can’t be true.”
“How long have you known?” Joe looked like he was suffocating. “I mean, are you sure?”
“Wait.” Nathan’s brain was stuck in a loop. He focused on his mother, an old habit since childhood. His father would say something that rocked him, and he’d look to her to be his anchor. But her eyes were fixed on Beto.
“I’m dying, so it’s the kind that kills you.” Beto fixed Nathan with a hard stare. “And I don’t plan on spending my last days trading insults with my youngest.” He looked at Joe. “Or letting my firstborn play hero when I know he can’t save me.”
Nathan reached for his water glass, but his fingers were numb and stiff. It fell over, and he watched the water drip onto the rug.
“You do this now, Beto?” Sofia hissed. “I finally get them here and you won’t let us have one more dinner? One evening without—”
“What do you expect me to do, Sofia? Wait until dessert to tell my boys they’re about to lose their father? Things need to be done.” His eyes shifted to Nathan. “I’m out of time.”
Beto’s gaze pinned Nathan to the chair. He couldn’t speak. There was a lump in his throat so big that he would choke if he tried to swallow. He’d spent most of his life wishing that his father were anyone but the man sitting across from him, but he’d never thought about something like this. He watched his parents exchange a look he couldn’t decipher, and something cold ran up his spine.