“You’ll see. Something special.”
She scoffed, muttered something about my mind finally slipping, and stormed off. Her heels echoed across the wooden floor I had repaired myself the year before.
I sat on the edge of the narrow bed. This room had been my refuge since my wife Rosa died and David insisted I move in.
“You shouldn’t live alone, Dad,” he had said. “We’re family.”
Family. A word that means safety—until it doesn’t.
I pulled out my old phone and dialed a number I had saved months earlier.
“Mr. Ruiz? This is Guillermo Santos. It’s time to activate our plan.”
Everything was ready.
That evening, I packed what little I owned. Clothes. Tools. Books. Photos of Rosa. A lifetime reduced to two suitcases and three boxes.
David came home around seven. He never knocked. I heard laughter from the kitchen, glasses clinking. Celebration, perhaps.
At eight, my grandson Pablo tapped gently on my door.
“Grandpa,” he whispered. “Mom says you’re leaving.”
“Yes,” I said. “It’s time I find my own place.”
His eyes filled. “Did I do something wrong?”
My heart cracked. “No, champ. This has nothing to do with you.”
“Will I see you again?”
“Of course,” I lied. I knew Cristina would make sure otherwise.
The next morning, a moving truck arrived. I had rented a tiny studio in a damp neighborhood—€450 a month, all my pension could manage.
Cristina watched with satisfaction as my things were loaded.
David appeared briefly. “Dad… this is for the best.”
“For whom?” I asked.
He didn’t answer.
As the taxi pulled away, I looked back once. Cristina was smiling.
My new apartment smelled of mold and loneliness, but it was mine.
At 2:00 p.m., my phone rang.
“The package has been delivered,” Mr. Ruiz said. “Signed by Cristina Santos.”
“Proceed,” I replied.
At 2:47, my phone exploded with calls. I ignored them all.
At 3:00, I listened to the first voicemail. Cristina was screaming.
By five, I answered David.
“What documents?” he demanded. “The ones saying you own the house? That you’re evicting us?”
“Yes,” I said calmly. “They’re accurate.”
“You bought the house?”
“Four years ago. With your mother’s life insurance. €180,000 you never knew about because you never asked.”
Silence.
“I rented it to you below market value,” I continued. “To protect myself.”
“This is manipulation!”
“No, David. Manipulation is throwing your elderly father out with one day’s notice. This is foresight.”
“You’re evicting us?”
“In thirty days. Thirty times the courtesy I was given.”
Cristina showed up five days later, desperate and broken.
“We’re sorry,” she cried. “Please.”
“You told me to die in the street,” I reminded her.
Words have consequences.
They moved out two weeks later.
I sold the house cheaply. Donated money to help homeless seniors. Set up a trust for my grandchildren—with conditions.
Sometimes I wonder if I was too harsh.
Then I remember her words.
And I know I wasn’t.
Because family isn’t blood.
It’s respect.
And respect, once broken, has a price.
