“With who?” Mariana asked, stepping out of my room.
“With Don Patricio,” I repeated calmly. “The building owner. The one who decides who stays here—and who doesn’t.”
My mother let out a nervous laugh.
“Oh please, Lucía. That can be fixed. If there’s a penalty for breaking the lease, we’ll pay it. Don’t make this into drama.”
Drama.
The favorite word of people who don’t want to be questioned.
“I have a contract,” I said.
“Contracts can be broken,” she replied. “This is about family.”
Meaning: sacrifice yourself so your sister doesn’t have to.
Mariana dropped onto my couch, shoes still on.
“Let’s be honest,” she said. “This place is wasted on you. It’s selfish. My kids need space. You just sit here reading and doing your… weird things.”
My life.
Reduced to “weird things.”
I placed her jacket on the table and spoke slowly.
“Here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to take those suitcases and leave my apartment. Now.”
She laughed.
“And if we don’t?”
“Then I’ll call Don Patricio and report an attempted illegal eviction. After that, I’ll call the police.”
My mother went pale.
“Don’t be ridiculous! We’re your family!”
“Exactly,” I said. “Family—not owners, not tenants, not people who get to decide what happens in my home.”
My father finally spoke.
“You’re being selfish. Your sister needs help.”
I met his gaze.
“No. What’s selfish is trying to take what’s mine because Mariana made bad decisions—and you don’t want to deal with them.”
Mariana’s expression changed.
“My husband left me,” she said.
“I know. And I’m sorry. But that doesn’t give you the right to make me homeless.”
My mother crossed her arms.
“You wouldn’t be homeless. You’d just find something smaller. Cheaper. You’re young.”
“With what money? What time? What peace of mind? And why should I leave when this is my home?”
No one answered.
Because they had always assumed I would move for them.
Like furniture.
I took a breath.
“If you come back like this again—if you try to pressure me, intimidate me, or use ‘family’ as an excuse to take what’s mine—I’ll document everything.”
My mother stared at me.
“You’ve changed.”
“No,” I said. “You just never bothered to know me.”
They left.
Not gracefully.
But they left.
