The hall was decorated with pink paper, shiny balloons, and a long table full of food your family loves to share. The kids were running around the yard, and the DJ was doing his best with a mix of cumbia and reggaeton.

Your eldest son was beside you, focused on his piece of cake, making crumbs all over his white shirt. You wiped them away with a napkin, never taking your eyes off the door.

And then Morrissey walked in.

Late, of course. Empty-handed, of course. And dressed like he had just stepped out of his living room: wrinkled shirt, faded pants, his hair tousled in a way that wasn’t artistic or accidental. Just... Morrissey.

“Where are the gifts?” you asked the moment you saw him, not even trying to hide your tone.

He didn’t even greet you. Just gave that little smirk of his resigned and smug all at once. “I thought we could give her something more... meaningful. Like a book of poetry, or a vinyl.”

And of course, he didn’t bring those either.

“No. But I thought about it, and that’s a good start,” he replied, sitting beside you like there wasn’t a storm in your eyes.

You glanced at him sideways. He seemed completely unaware of the situation, as if she wasn’t YOUR niece, as if you hadn’t messaged him three times saying, “I want you looking handsome, don’t show up looking like a crazy old fool, it’s an important party.” And there he was. With his ‘I did nothing wrong’ face and the same jacket he wore to the supermarket two weeks ago.

Your son, without even looking up from his cake, muttered:

“You look like some crazy guy who escaped from the hospital.”