PART 2
I didn’t answer any of the calls.
I sat on a cardboard box in the middle of a small apartment in the Narvarte neighborhood that I had just rented with what little savings I had left. It had a huge window, poor lighting in the kitchen, and a contract with my name on it. Mine alone.
The first person I looked for that morning was Sofía, a friend from college who was now a civil lawyer.
I placed the receipts on the desk: transfers for property taxes, repair invoices, utility bills, and bank statements showing that my credit card had covered almost everything for three years.
Sofia read them silently. Then she looked at the printed emails from my mother and Alejandro.
“Valeria, it’s one thing for your mother to own the house. It’s quite another for her to think she can kick you out overnight, after you’ve lived there, received mail there, and paid substantial maintenance fees.”
“I don’t want to take the house away from her,” I said.
“Then don’t. But don’t let her humiliate you for no reason either.”
The plan was simple and legally sound. I wasn’t going to cut off services or damage anything. I would simply remove my credit cards, my furniture, my appliances, and document everything I had paid. Sofia also drafted a letter requesting reimbursement for extraordinary expenses: plumbing repairs, refrigerator repairs, back property taxes, and an electricity bill my mother had promised to pay later.
On Friday, my mom went to the airport to pick up Alejandro and the kids. Ernesto went with them to “welcome them.” As soon as the car turned the corner, Mariana, my best friend, two coworkers, and a locksmith got in.
I changed the lock on the main door because I still had some of my things inside, and according to Sofía, I could protect my home while I formally handed over the keys. I didn’t lock the house up for good. I left a new key in a sealed envelope inside the folder.
I took out my bed, my books, my desk, the microwave, the television, the c
