I felt my heart begin to pound.
“What are you saying?”
She folded her arms.
“This house belongs to me now.”
I stared at her.
“I’m his mother.”
“And I’m his wife.”
“My son would never throw me out.”
“He isn’t here.”
Those four words destroyed whatever remained of my grief.
I stepped toward the wall where our family photographs hung.
I saw one picture of Neftalí at age seven.
His front tooth was missing.
He was smiling so widely that his eyes were nearly closed.
I reached toward the frame.
Vanessa stepped in front of me.
“Don’t.”
I looked at her.
“I just want the photograph.”
“No.”
“Please.”
“I said no.”
“Vanessa, that is my son.”
“And this is my house.”
Her voice was quiet.
That made it worse.
She wasn’t angry.
She wasn’t grieving.
She sounded like someone discussing furniture.
I lowered my hand.
“Give me five minutes.”
“You don’t have five minutes.”
She picked up one of my suitcases.
“The driver is waiting.”
I looked at the photograph again.
Then at Vanessa.
And something inside me changed.
For twenty-three years, I had swallowed every insult.
Every humiliation.
Every moment when she made me feel small.
But that day, standing in the house where I had watched my son grow into a man, I realized something.
