More laughter.
It is not merely abandonment.
That would have hurt enough.
No, this is choreography. A planned humiliation. A public punishment because one month ago, when your three children demanded immediate controlling stakes in Vargas Spirits, you told them no. Not because you did not love them. Because none of them understood what the company was. To them, it was inheritance in a glass bottle. To you, it was thirty-five years of dawn labor in agave fields, contracts signed on folding chairs, shipments lost to storms, payroll met by selling your own horses when cash ran thin, and the slow brutal miracle of building a name that outlived contempt.
You said they could earn leadership.
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