There was more.
Vanessa did not work in any family business. That company went bankrupt four years ago. Since then, she lived on small temporary jobs and mainly on loans from friends and acquaintances that she never paid back. Her business administration degree was real. But she had been suspended from her last job for embezzlement of funds. Small amounts, but enough to get her fired without a recommendation.
The entire Torres family was a walking scam, and my son had married the ringleader.
That night, I did not sleep. I stayed sitting in my kitchen with all the pages of the report spread out in front of me like pieces of a macabre puzzle. But now I knew the truth, and the truth, however painful, gave me power.
The phone rang at two in the morning. It was Steven.
“Mom.” His voice sounded strange. “I need to tell you something.”
“What happened?”
“I signed… I signed a lease for your house. Vanessa told me that you had already accepted moving out and that it was only missing formalizing the agreement with her parents. I signed as a guarantor because the condo is in my name.”
I remained silent. A long, heavy silence.
“Mom?”
“When did you sign that?”
“Three days ago. But today I saw the full contract. And Mom, it says her parents can live there indefinitely, and that if you do not vacate in thirty days, they can start a legal process.”
I closed my eyes. I took a deep breath.
“I see.”
“I am sorry. I thought Vanessa told me—”
“I know what she told you, and I know what you signed.”
“What am I going to do?”
“You already made your choice, Steven. Now I am going to make mine.”
I hung up before he could answer. I poured myself a glass of the brandy I kept for special occasions. Arthur had bought it to celebrate our twenty-fifth anniversary. We never reached that anniversary.
I drank slowly, feeling the liquid burn my throat.
And then, with the clarity that only comes in the darkest moments, I knew exactly what I had to do.
I gave them exactly what they wanted. Or at least that is what they thought.
Three days after that late-night call, I invited Steven and Vanessa to my house. I made coffee and bought pastries from the bakery on the corner, as I did when Steven was a child.
Vanessa arrived with a smile that did not reach her eyes. Steven did not look directly at me.
“Thanks for having us, Linda,” she said, settling onto my sofa as if it were already hers. “I know things got tense, but in the end, family is family, right?”
I smiled. A tired, defeated smile. The smile they wanted to see.
“You are right. I have been thinking a lot these days.”
I poured the coffee with a slightly trembling hand, a detail that did not go unnoticed.
“I am not young anymore. This house is too much for me alone.”
I saw how Vanessa straightened up, how her eyes shone with anticipated victory.
“Steven’s condo is more practical,” I continued. “No stairs, no garden to maintain. And if Vanessa’s family really needs help…”
“Mom…” Steven sounded relieved, almost guilty.
“I just need time to organize my things,” I said softly. “Fifteen years here. Many memories to pack.”
“Of course,” Vanessa replied quickly. “Take the time you need. Two weeks, a month…”
“Three weeks,” I said. “I move in three weeks.”
Vanessa extended her hand across the table and squeezed mine. Her fingers were cold.
“You are a wise woman, Linda. This is the best for everyone.”
When they left, I sat in my living room for hours, looking at every corner. The armchair where Arthur read the newspaper. The stain on the wall left by Steven when he was eight and played ball inside the house. The curtains I had chosen ten years ago.
But I did not cry. I had no more tears.
The Torres family moved in two days later. They did not wait for the three weeks. They arrived with a moving truck on a Tuesday morning. I stood there watching as they unloaded furniture, boxes, televisions.
Richard Torres was a man of about sixty with a belly and that air of someone who once had money and never got over losing it. Stella was thin, nervous, with her hands always busy with something. Monica was thirty-two, bleached blonde, high heels even for a move.
“Mrs. Linda,” Richard greeted me with false cordiality. “How kind of you to allow us to stay here. We appreciate it enormously.”
“It is temporary,” I replied.
“Of course, of course. Just until our situation improves.”
Liar. I could see it in his eyes. They had no intention of ever leaving.
I gave them a tour of the house. I showed them where the water shutoff valves were, how the heating worked, where I kept the tools.
“This bedroom was my son’s,” I said, opening the door to the room that still kept some of his soccer trophies.
“Perfect for me,” said Monica, entering without asking permission. She ripped a poster off the wall. “This has to go. I am going to paint it pink.”
