The notary slid the first document out of the sealed envelope.
My mother didn’t wait for him to read it.
— That isn’t valid anymore, — she said.
Her voice came out too quickly.
The officer looked at her.
Valeria looked at her.
Even I looked at her differently.
Until that second, I had still believed my mother’s fear was about the complaint.
About the medical report.
About the fact that a police officer and a social worker were standing in her living room while Mateo slept on the couch with a swollen cheek.
But she wasn’t staring at the report.
She was staring at the envelope.
The notary calmly unfolded the document.
— Mrs.
Robles, you recognize this?
My mother pressed her lips together.
He placed the paper beside the blue folder Julián had left me.
The seal on the copy from the envelope matched the seal on the document I had found less than an hour earlier.
My knees weakened.
— What is it? — I asked.
The notary turned the page toward me.
— A notarized property transfer.
Valeria stood abruptly.
— Property transfer of what?
Nobody answered her immediately.
The notary looked at me instead.
— Of this house.
For a moment, all I could hear was the refrigerator humming behind us.
My mother’s house.
The house where I had been reminded almost every day that Mateo and I lived by charity.
The house where I had paid for groceries, electricity, medicine, repairs and part of the property taxes while being told I should be grateful for one small bedroom.
The house where my six-year-old son had been locked in a laundry room so his cousin could enjoy himself without being bothered.
I stared at the paper.
— I don’t understand.
The notary nodded toward Julián’s folder.
— Your husband appears to have expected that.
I opened the folder with both hands.
The first document was a contract between Julián and my mother.
Six years earlier, Teresa had been struggling with debts tied to the house.
Julián had used nearly all the savings he and I had built together to clear them.
I remembered the year.
Mateo had just been born.
Julián had worked impossible hours at the repair shop.
Some nights he came home after midnight with black grease still beneath his nails.
He had told me he was helping my mother solve a financial problem.
I had never asked for details.
At that time, I trusted both of them.
The contract stated that the money was not a gift.
In exchange, Teresa had agreed to transfer legal ownership of the property for Mateo’s benefit.
Because Mateo was an infant, I was named as the adult responsible for administering his interest until he was old enough to do so himself.
My mother retained the right to live in the house.
But she did not retain the right to sell it, mortgage it, give it to Valeria or throw Mateo out of it.
My hands went cold.
— She signed this?
The notary pointed to the bottom of the page.
Teresa Robles.
