His father, Nino, an 80-year-old bulldozer in a cardigan, called him at 8:17 PM.

“I know, Pa.”

And Rafa, the failed seminarian, the exhausted chef, the son who came too late, began to hum a tango his grandmother used to sing. Norma’s fingers twitched. Her lips moved. She was trying to follow.

The Last Cake

“You’re my son. There’s no difference. Tomorrow. Three o’clock. The nursing home.”

When the song ended, she picked up a fork. She took a bite of the cake. She chewed slowly. Then, for the first time in four years, she smiled.