The manager, a tall man named Mr. Calloway, walked slowly toward us with a tablet in one hand and a printed page in the other. Two members of the staff stood a few steps behind him. The whole table went quiet. My father straightened his tie, still smiling, certain this was only a formality.

Mr. Calloway set the page on the tablecloth, directly in front of my father. “Sir, before anyone touches this check, I need you to read the top line aloud,” he said. My father glanced down, and I watched his smile crack. My mother grabbed the edge of the table. Rafael’s glass stopped halfway to his mouth. Because the name on that line was not mine. It was my father’s own, and beside it was a date from two weeks ago.