“This year, we’re only having dinner with my wife’s family,” my son told me. I simply replied, “perfect.”

“Her family?”

“You know what I mean.”

“No, Hugo. I don’t think I do.”

He exhaled like someone who had already made a decision and resented having to explain it.

“Carla’s  parents are coming. Her sister and brother-in-law. Gabriel, obviously. Us.”

I counted silently.

“That isn’t a small dinner,” I said. “That’s a dinner without me.”

There was a pause.

Behind me sat a cream-colored folder containing the deed I had signed three days earlier.

Neither Hugo nor his wife knew about it.

“Mom, please don’t make this harder.”

“I’m not making anything harder. I’m asking why your mother isn’t welcome at your Christmas Eve table.”

“Carla’s parents are very formal. They lived in France for several years. They’re used to a certain kind of holiday dinner.”