“That bedroom isn’t yours anymore, Lucía. It belongs to your sister.”
My mother said it the moment she stepped into my apartment—like she owned the place. Mariana followed behind her, dragging two large suitcases, while my father came last, silent as always, wearing that familiar expression of quiet agreement with the wrong side.
I had lived in that small apartment in Colonia Americana for three years. It wasn’t luxurious, but it was mine in every way that mattered. I paid the rent. I signed the lease. I built the furniture piece by piece after long days at work. I painted the walls a soft gray-blue that made me feel calm. I sanded down a cheap pine bookshelf until it looked like something worth keeping.
It was the first place in my life that truly belonged to me.
And that was exactly why my family had come to take it.
“Go start packing your things,” my mother said, pointing toward the hallway. “The movers won’t wait.”