PART 1
“Your brother is coming to live here with his two children, so you’re going to get out, you parasite.”
My mother said it standing in the kitchen, arms crossed, as if she were shooing away a stranger and not the daughter who had been running this house for three years.
I was pouring coffee into my father’s blue mug, the one no one had touched since he died. I froze.
“You’re joking, right?”
My mother, Carmen, let out a dry laugh.
“No, Valeria. I’m very serious. Alejandro needs stability. His children need a home. You have a job, you don’t have children, and you’ve pushed my patience too far.”
I looked around: the stove I had had repaired when the pipe burst, the refrigerator I paid for in installments, the table where every month I checked the electricity, water, property tax, and prescription bills.
“Did I push my patience too far?” I asked.
She lifted her chin.
“Yes. You’ve lived here as if the house were yours.”
I felt something break inside me, but I didn’t cry. In that same house, when my father died of a heart attack, I left my apartment in Roma, turned down a promotion in Monterrey, and came back to take care of my mother. Alejandro, my older brother, showed up for two hours at the wake, said he was “devastated,” and then disappeared amidst debts, excuses, and women to whom he also promised to change.
I was the one who took my mother to the cardiologist. I was the one who learned to fill out insurance forms. I was the one who paid the back property taxes so there wouldn’t be any problems with the family property in Coyoacán.
But that night, to her, I was a burden.
In the corner of the kitchen was Ernesto, a man from her parish group who had been visiting far too often lately. He always smelled of cheap cologne and spoke as if he owned the house.
“Maybe this will help you mature, Valeria,” she said, smiling. “At your age, a woman should already have her own path.”
I wanted to scream at her that I had abandoned my path to take care of my mother. I wanted to lay every receipt, every transfer, every sleepless night on the table.
But I understood something worse: they had already planned everything.
I remembered the two bunk beds that arrived “as a donation.” I remembered the boxes of my clothes moved to the hallway. I remembered my mother whispering on the phone: “She doesn’t know anything yet.”
I took a deep breath.
“Okay,” I said.
My mother blinked, surprised that I wasn’t fighting.
“Then we’ll talk tomorrow about how you’re going to get your things out.”
I didn’t answer. I went up to my room, closed the door, and opened my laptop. In the shared email for the house, I found a thread called “Kids’ Room.”
Alejandro had written: “Just make sure Valeria leaves before Saturday. If she gets difficult, tell her she’s selfish.”
My mom replied: “Don’t worry. I’ve already started packing her things.”
I didn’t sleep that night. At five in the morning, I left with a folder full of receipts and a decision that chilled me to the bone.
When I woke up the next day, I had 53 missed calls.
I couldn’t believe what was about to happen…
