Fighting for Mine

On the day we buried Papa, I didn’t focus on the mahogany casket with its elegant lines nor the meticulously dressed mourners. No. The most striking, most brilliant object—a three-carat blinding oval-cut diamond—sat on my finger. Robert Westmore, the man who put it there, failed to attend. He was on yet another business trip. Despite being surrounded by my family, I felt utterly alone and ashamed. Because of my tragic accident, I didn’t come to El Domingo often.