My mother-in-law left me home with noodles but called demanding I pay for her party—until she discovered the house wasn’t hers to celebrate in

the food on the stove. The broth went lukewarm before I finished the first bite. The noodles swelled, soft and sad, just like my patience.

Then the phone rang.

Santiago.

I answered.

“Come to the restaurant right now,” he said, skipping any greeting. “Bring the black card. We’re seventy thousand pesos short of closing the party’s account.”

For a moment I continue reading …