Chapter 12 - A Shared Table
Weeks melted into months. The Chicago winter gave way to the pale, fragile blooms of early spring.
In the Ramos family apartment in Pilsen, the smell of roasted chicken, garlic, and cilantro filled the narrow kitchen. Mateo sat at the small kitchen table, his color fully restored, laughing as he helped his mother chop onions. Beside him on the counter sat his portable treatment log; his kidney function had stabilized enough that his name was formally moved to the active donor recipient list.
The doorbell buzzed. Maya wiped her hands on a dish towel and opened the door.
Damian stood in the hallway. He wasn't wearing his usual bespoke Italian three-piece suit; he wore dark denim, a simple charcoal sweater, and clean leather boots. In his arms, baby Clara was bundled in a yellow knit sweater with matching booties, her wide eyes taking in the unfamiliar sights and smells.
"You're late," Maya said, a playful smile curling her lips.
"Clara insisted on throwing her shoe out of the stroller three times before we reached the elevator," Damian replied, stepping inside.
Mateo stood up immediately, offering his hand with deep respect. "Mr. Vance. Thank you for coming."
May you like
Damian took the teenager’s hand, shaking it firmly before pulling him into a brief, warm shoulder clap. "Call me Damian, Mateo. And stop thanking me. You're doing the hard work."
As Mrs. Ramos bustled over, speaking rapid, joyous Spanish while pressing a plate of warm tortillas into Damian's hands, Damian looked around the modest, brightly decorated apartment. Plants crowded the windowsills; framed family photos covered the walls; lively music drifted from an old radio on the refrigerator. There was no marble, no five-thousand-dollar sound systems, and no panoramic city views. Yet the room possessed a richness Damian had not experienced since childhood.
