They gave me the worst room on the family trip.
They didn’t know I owned the hotel.
I decided to keep quiet and observe the annual reunion. My mother insisted on the tradition, though for me it meant a weekend of comparisons and cutting remarks. This year would be different—Hotel Miramar, with its ocean view and perfect gardens, was mine, thanks to the inheritance my grandfather had secretly left me six months ago.
At the lobby, my sister Lucia, the family favorite, was welcomed with hugs and smiles. I stood unnoticed until my mother spotted me and frowned.
“I thought you wouldn’t come, Carmen,” she said, disappointment plain.
“I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” I replied with a smile that didn’t reach my eyes.
Roberto, Lucia’s husband, glanced me up and down. “Looks like the graphic design business isn’t so lucrative,” he sneered. If only they knew my small company was now an internationally respected agency.
When the room assignments came, my family got the best: presidential suite for Lucia and Roberto, executive suite for my parents, deluxe rooms for my cousins. And me? Room 108, first floor, next to the laundry—the smallest, noisiest room. Miguel, the manager, looked uneasy. He knew the truth.
“It’s fine,” I said, taking the key. They didn’t know that the hotel, every polished detail they were flaunting, was mine.