On my daughter’s first birthday, my mother-in-law lifted her glass in front of the whole family and asked who the real father was because the baby had blue eyes. Everyone expected me to cry.
Instead, I reached into my bag and took out two envelopes.

My daughter, Lucía, had just learned to clap. She sat on my hip in a white ruffled dress, her tiny hands patting my blouse while her blue eyes stared at the lights like they were stars. Her mouth was full of cookie crumbs, because she had already learned that parties made adults careless and babies opportunistic.

The room was filled with white roses, ivory tablecloths, gold-rimmed glasses, and relatives who spoke softly, as if even their voices had to sound expensive.