“Maya, please,” she begged, her voice a cracked whisper.

“Do not do this.”

“Not here.”

“Not in front of everyone.”

I walked over to the long gift table near the edge of the patio.

Among the bright boxes and silver ribbons sat a small, faded wooden box.

I had brought it down from the attic myself this morning.

I reached out and lifted the latch.

The guests leaned forward, their eyes locked on my hands.

Inside the box lay a burnt, yellowed piece of paper.

It was a legal document bearing our family’s private crest.

Before I could lift it, the screen door to the house slid open with a sharp clatter.

A man in a dark gray suit stepped out onto the patio, holding a black leather folder.

He did not look like a guest.

He looked directly at my father, then at me.

The man in the gray suit adjusted his glasses.

He took a step toward the patio table, his leather shoes clicking on the damp stone.

My father’s face drained of what little color remained.