The family reunion

Luis reached with one arm. Rafael reached with the other.

A suitcase rolled away.

Their niece caught it before it hit the fountain.

“Excellent start,” she said.

They laughed more loudly than the joke deserved.

It had been eight years.

Their mother had suggested a reunion often enough that nobody heard the suggestion properly anymore.

Then a cousin sent an old photograph.

Seven children stood beneath a tree. Luis had his hand on Rafael's shoulder. Neither remembered that part.

“We should,” Rafael wrote.

This time someone answered, “Which month?”

Their organizer, Ana, gathered the practical questions privately: different departure cities, different budgets, school dates, mobility needs.

The first location worked for most people and badly for two. They changed it.

One relative couldn't come. Another joined for a shorter stay. Ana stopped calling it everyone once they knew it would not be.

They chose a small inn around a courtyard, with space to sit together and room to step away.

At dinner, Luis and Rafael began with safe subjects.

Work. Children. The weather in two places.

Then their niece produced the photograph.

“Which one broke the window?”

Both pointed at the other.

Their mother, hearing this from the end of the table, put down her spoon.

“Both.”

The conversation loosened.

Later, the brothers walked around the courtyard while the children argued over a ball.

“I thought you were angry,” Luis said.

“I thought you wanted space.”

Neither explanation covered eight years. Neither tried to make it.

They sat down beside the fountain.

On the last morning, Ana asked for one photograph before the cars arrived.

Somebody was missing a shoe. Somebody wanted a different angle. Their mother refused to wait for either problem to be solved.

Luis stood beside Rafael.

Without thinking, he put a hand on his shoulder.

Their niece lowered the camera afterward.

“Keep that one,” she said.