On my 73rd birthday, my husband brought a woman and two children and said in front of all our guests, ‘This is my second family. I’ve kept it a secret for 30 years.’ My two daughters froze, unable to believe what was happening in front of their eyes. But I just calmly smiled as if I had known all along, handed him a small box, and said, ‘I already knew. This is for you.’ His hands began to tremble as he opened the lid.

I went back to Langston, who was watching me now with real confusion.

“I knew, Langston,” I said. My voice did not tremble. It sounded level and calm, almost soft. “This gift is for you.”

READ MORE IN NEXT PAGEI held out the box.

He hesitated. His script, so carefully directed, had glitched. This scene wasn’t in it. He mechanically released Ranata’s shoulder and took the box from me. His fingers brushed mine—warm, slightly damp. I pulled my hand away.

He looked at the box, then at me. Confusion flickered in his eyes and was quickly replaced by a condescending smirk. He probably decided it was some pathetic gesture, an attempt to save face. Maybe an expensive watch, cufflinks, a parting gift to prove I was “still dignified.”

He pulled at the bow. The silk ribbon slid onto the grass like a dark snake. He tore off the paper. His movements were less confident now, a shade too abrupt.

Under the paper was a plain white cardboard box.

He opened the lid.