So I’m sitting at The Grand Marlon, chatting with Mariel on my laptop, going over wedding details — timelines, décor notes, the whole wedding-coordinator madness — and I’m genuinely trying to mind my own business.
But right beside me is this older gentleman with his five grown kids, all seated proper and serious, like they’re holding a family shareholders meeting.
I’m focused on my screen…
Until suddenly my spidey senses snap awake because I hear the old man say the most dangerous phrase in the Spanish language:
“Si me muero…”
(“If I die…”)
At that moment?
The wedding notes vanished from my brain.
I am now tuned in like I’ve been personally invited to the will-reading.
He starts listing his properties:
“These have restaurants…
These have buildings…
These are the houses…
These are ready for business…”
Chetumal, Bacalar, Calderitas — land everywhere, like Monopoly but with real consequences.
And the shocking part?
NONE of his kids argued.
Not a peep.
No “that one is mine,” no side-eye, no attitude.
Just quiet, respectful, slightly sad faces — like they know their father’s time is getting close, and they’re bracing their hearts.
Meanwhile in San Pedro?
By now people would be pulling chairs, throwing chanclas, and claiming beachfront lots like it’s the Hunger Games.
But this family?
Calm.
Civilized.
A miracle worth documenting.
They finish their meeting.
The kids stay seated, waiting respectfully.
The father — the head of the empire — stands up first, adjusts his shirt, then turns around…
And looks me dead in the eyes.
With a little grin he says:
“Provecho, ya nos vamos. Por si nos van a correr ahorita.”
(“Enjoy your meal — we’re leaving before they kick us out.”)
And because my mouth does not wait for permission, I immediately look him straight back and say:
“Papa… soy tu hija perdida.”
(Dad… I’m your long-lost daughter.)
The entire table?
GONE.
Laughing like I just claimed the Bacalar property for myself.
And that, my friends, is how I accidentally inserted myself into a Mexican inheritance.
The events and characters depicted in Wolfe’s Woofer by Melody S. Wolfe are entirely fictional. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. The column is intended for satire and entertainment purposes only.
