Vanessa slid the folder across the table to our father. Inside was a buyout offer from her husband’s investment group. Lowball. Insulting. The kind of number you give a drowning man and call it mercy. “It’s the kindest way out, Daddy,” she cooed. “Before she runs it completely into the ground.”
Dad’s hands trembled as he reached for the pen. He looked so tired. So I spoke, quietly, the way I always do before service starts.
“Before you sign, Dad, you should know two things.”
I pulled out my own folder. Inside were the actual books. Not the ones Vanessa had been forwarded by our bookkeeper cousin Marco, the ones she’d clearly used to build her little narrative. The real ones.
“Papa’s isn’t failing. We cleared three hundred and twelve thousand in profit last quarter. We just opened a second location in Allston in February. I didn’t tell anyone because you told me not to stress you during treatment.”
Vanessa’s wine glass froze halfway to her lips.
“The second thing,” I said, sliding another document forward, “is that you transferred sixty percent ownership to me in 2021. Remember? After Vanessa told you to sell it and put you in assisted living. The lawyer’s name is on the bottom.”
Dad blinked at the paper. Then, slowly, he smiled the way he used to before he got sick. “I remember, mija.”
Vanessa’s husband cleared his throat. “There must be a misunderstanding—”
“There isn’t,” I said. “But I’ll entertain your offer. I’ll buy out Vanessa’s forty percent. At the number you just offered Dad. Pennies on the dollar. Take it tonight, or I restructure and she gets nothing when I open location three.”
Vanessa’s mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.
Dad reached for my hand under the table and squeezed. “Pass the bread, Vanessa,” he said gently. “And sign your sister’s paper.”
She signed. Her hand shook the whole way through. I poured myself the first glass of wine I’d had in three years, and it tasted like every 2 a.m. I’d ever earned.
