PART 2
At eight twelve the next morning, I was already seated in my lawyer’s office.
“I want to sell the house today,” I told Leonardo Aguirre.
He’s known me for twenty years. He didn’t ask about money first. He looked at my split lip, the bruise under my eye, and then closed the door.
—Are you going to report it?
—No.
—You should.
—What I want doesn’t fit in a complaint.
Leonardo placed his hands on the desk.
—Then tell me exactly what you want.
—For the first time in his life, I want him to understand that everything has consequences.
By noon, the paperwork was ready. The house was mortgage-free, the company meticulously organized, and the usage permit I had granted for years could be revoked immediately. There was also the perfect buyer: a wealthy businessman who had discreetly been inquiring about large Las Lomas properties for months. Quick cash, clean deal, no sentimentality.
I signed at eleven forty-seven.
It’s that simple.
One pen. One notary. Two folders. One less house.
The strange thing was, I didn’t feel anger. I felt peace. Cold, unfamiliar, almost brutal peace. Like finally removing a thorn that has been festering for years.
At twelve nineteen, my phone rang.
Fabián.
I answered on the third ring.
“What the hell did you do?” he spat, skipping hello entirely.
In the background: hurried footsteps, nervous voices, a door slamming, Mariana’s sharp hysteria, and another male voice—surely the buyer’s representative.
—I sold one of my company’s properties, I replied.
“Don’t play dumb! A notary, an administrator, two people with papers, and a damn locksmith just arrived. What kind of sick joke is this?”
—This is not a joke.
—This is my house!
I leaned back in my chair.
—No, Fabián. It never was.
A dry silence followed. Not of doubt. Of vertigo.
—What did you say?
—The deed isn’t in your name. It never was. The property belongs to Grupo Salgado del Centro, and I’m the sole owner of that company.
On the other end, she stopped shouting briefly. I heard Mariana, beside herself, asking something.
“That’s impossible,” he muttered.
—It was impossible to believe that you could hit me in my own house and continue living there as if nothing had happened.
—You can’t do this to us.
His voice lost all arrogance. Fear had taken over.
And I realized something that gave me more sorrow than satisfaction: pride crumbles fast when cardboard boxes are approaching.
—I can— I told him— and it’s already done.
He hung up.
Within an hour, messages arrived from Mariana, two unknown numbers, a cousin who never got involved until drama smelled near, and even my sister Ofelia, trembling as she called.
—Is it true you took Fabián out of his house overnight?
—I took him out of a house that was never his.
—But he’s your son.
I gazed at my reflection in the office window.
—Thirty blows, Ophelia. In front of his wife. In front of guests. And that was just the culmination of many years.
She stayed silent.
Sometimes a number speaks louder than a hundred explanations.
Mid-afternoon, Leonardo called.
—They got aggressive with the buyer’s people. Nothing serious, it’s all been reported. We gave them a few hours to remove belongings. Private security is on its way.
—Will they cooperate?
—First they’ll insult. Then beg. After that, they’ll try to negotiate. You know how people who only understand the world when they lose something behave.
He wasn’t wrong.
At six ten, Mariana called.
I answered.
“You are destroying your own son over an argument,” she said, her calm false.
—It wasn’t an argument.
—Fabián was agitated.
—Altered thirty times.
—You arrived unannounced.
—The house was mine.
“It was yours on paper,” she said. “But we built a life there.”
I let out a dry laugh.
—No. You tested my patience.
She was speechless for barely a second.
—This isn’t going to stay like this.
—I didn’t expect anything else from you either.
I hung up.
The next morning, Fabián showed up at my office. Alone. No smile. No entourage. No glassy façade behind him. His shirt wrinkled, eyes red from sleeplessness, wearing the same clothes as yesterday.
“Are you happy now?” he asked.
I pointed to the chair.
—Sit down.
He refused.
—I’m talking to you.
—And I continue to offer you education.
He clenched his jaw, stepped two paces toward the desk, lowering his voice.
—It was wrong. Yeah? Okay. It was wrong. What do you want? For me to apologize?
I stared at him for a long moment.
Then I realized that even now, I hadn’t understood everything.
He still believed forgiveness was a key to returning.
And I still didn’t know the hardest part of the truth.
But I was about to find out.
