I Pretended to Leave for Germany, but When I Returned to My Own House at Night, I Saw Something at the Table That Made Ivan Stop Smiling

That night my sister was drinking a toast with charged laughter while my mother served the table with a heavy tray, and my father was sleeping in a small room behind the kitchen.

I stood outside the window and could barely hold my breath. Those old photographs that I myself had hung on the walls of the house in childhood were still there, but now everything looked unfamiliar. Wax candles were burning on the table, there was a smell of meat, and my sister, Marta, was receiving the guests as if this house belonged to her.

“Pour some more, Ivan,” she said to the man sitting beside her. “Today we truly have a reason to make a toast.”

Ivan raised his glass with a laugh.

“Alvaro is in Germany for ten days. No one will disturb us in this house.”

My hands clenched into fists. I was supposed to be in Germany for ten days. That was what everyone thought. I myself had sent my family a photograph taken at the airport a few hours earlier. I left my black suitcase with my assistant, rented a car, and drove silently all the way toward the village.

For months, every month, I had transferred four thousand euros. The money was supposed to be used for my father’s medicines, my mother’s treatment, heating, food, and a woman to help them. Marta wrote to me every week that everything was fine. She sent me photographs: Mother was standing in a clean kitchen, Father was sitting in an armchair, and fresh products were arranged on the table.

But three weeks earlier, Mother had quietly told me on the phone:

“My son, do not worry about us. We have already gotten used to the cold.”

“The cold? Why do you not have heating?”

She was silent for several seconds.

“I do not know, Alvaro. Ask your sister.”

When I called Father, his voice was even lower.

“Father, did you receive the money?”

“Do not send any more, my son.”

“Why?”

“Because it does not reach us.”

Five minutes later Marta wrote to me that Father was confused because of his age and that I should not pay attention to his words. Then I checked the recordings from the house cameras. Eighty-seven days had passed since the cameras had apparently been disconnected.

Now I was seeing the truth with my own eyes.

Mother approached the table, and someone roughly took the tray from her.

“Quickly, Carmen, the guests are waiting for you,” Marta told her.

“I want to sit down for a little while, my daughter.”

Marta’s smile disappeared.

“You are still asking for many things. Do not make me take you back to that room.”

Mother lowered her head. My heart struck me as if someone had punched me from inside.

Soon Father came out through the side door. He was holding a cold plate. He had not come from the bedroom. He came out of the small room behind the kitchen, the room where we had stored wooden boxes in childhood.

Ivan raised his hand for the glass, and then I saw his wrist.

Father’s watch.

There was a small crescent-shaped scratch on the steel band—I had made it when I bought Father the watch with my first salary. On the back, engraved in my own hand, were the words: “You taught me the value of time.”

“Where did you get that watch?” one of the guests asked.

Ivan looked at his wrist.

“It is a gift. Old people no longer need old things.”

I could not endure it. I went into the back yard, carefully pressed against the door, and opened the lock. Darkness stood in the room. I turned on a small lamp.

There was a bed squeezed against the wall, cardboard had been attached to the window, and empty boxes of Father’s medicines were scattered on the floor. Mother was sitting on a chair, Father was lying on the bed, and the fear that does not appear on the face at the sight of a stranger was written on both their faces.

“My son?” Mother whispered.

Father tried to stand up.

“Do not move, Father. First you must tell me everything.”

Mother put a finger to her lips.

“Marta will find out.”

“This time I want her to find out.”

Father took a folded sheet of paper from under the bed and handed it to me. One date and only one sentence were written on the paper: “If someone helps us, they will separate us too.”

Marta’s voice came from outside.

“Alvaro, I know you are here. Come out before everything gets worse.”

The door handle slowly lowered, and I looked at the signature hidden at the bottom of the paper…

The door opened and Marta stopped on the threshold. She held a wineglass in her hand, but her fingers were shaking so much that the wine spilled onto the floor.

“Were you not supposed to be in Germany?” she asked.

“You also know that I did not go there.”

“This is my house.”

“No, Marta. This is Mother and Father’s house.”

Ivan followed behind her and blocked the doorway.

“Postpone the conversation until tomorrow, Alvaro.”

“Give me Father’s watch.”

Fear appeared on his face for a moment, and then he smiled again.

Mother squeezed my hand.

“My son, more than money has happened.”

Father took another folded sheet of paper from his pocket.

“A woman brought this to us. She said she could help. Marta heard the conversation, and since then she has been sending us threats.”

The name of a neighboring social worker was written on the paper. Below it were the words: “Tomorrow evening they will no longer be here.”

“Where were you planning to go?” I asked.

Father lowered his eyes.

“Somewhere they could not separate us from one another.”

The sound of dishes breaking came from outside. Marta struck the door with her hand.

“Alvaro, come out! You have no idea whom you have confronted!”

I put the paper in my pocket and hugged Mother. At that moment her phone rang. An unknown number appeared on the screen. She answered, and within a few seconds she lost all color.

“Who was it?” I asked.

Mother held out the phone to me. Only one voice could be heard in the call recording:

“If you leave the house tonight, you will never find your son again…”

I was holding the phone when the recording ended. Such silence fell over the room that I could even hear the ticking of the clock behind the wall.

“Whose voice is that?” I asked Mother.

Mother closed her eyes.

“Ivan’s. But Marta was standing right there.”

The door moved again.

“Alvaro, this is the final warning,” Marta shouted. “No one has allowed anyone to enter this room.”

“My parents live in this room.”

“They can no longer control themselves.”

“Is that why you took their money and house away from them?”

Marta fell silent. Ivan looked toward her, as if he had realized for the first time that words were unnecessary.

I called a lawyer. I told Nino everything I was seeing. She asked me only one question:

“Alvaro, can you record aloud that your parents are speaking voluntarily in front of you?”

“I can.”

I put the phone on the table. Nino managed to join by video call.

“Mrs. Carmen, Mr. Joaquin, who managed your bank accounts during the last months?” she asked.

Father did not delay in answering.

“Marta. She made us sign a power of attorney. She told us that Alvaro was ill and could no longer send us the money himself.”

“Did she use my name?” I asked.

“Every day,” Mother said. “She told us that you were abandoning us and were trying to redeem your guilt only with money.”

Marta opened the door all the way.

“They are lying! They are both confused!”

Nino answered calmly:

“Then why are the bank statements signed by you in our possession?”

Marta’s face turned pale.

Nino displayed a document on the screen. Four thousand euros were transferred every month. The money was then divided into small payments intended for medicines, while the rest went to Marta’s account. With the money from the last three months, she had bought Ivan a car and valuable items.

Ivan looked at the watch and quickly took it off.

“I did not know that this money was theirs.”

“You yourself signed the preliminary agreement for the sale of the house,” I told him.

Nino opened another file.

“This is the main thing now. Marta and Ivan have already applied to a notary in order to obtain full control over Carmen and Joaquin’s house. The meeting is tomorrow morning.”

Marta leaned against the wall.

“You will not be able to prove anything.”

At that moment headlights appeared in the yard. A social worker and a police officer stood at the doors, but Nino immediately raised her hand.

“Do not enter yet. We have one more recording to listen to.”

She played the second recording. My sister’s voice was heard there:

“Make them sign, or Alvaro will go to prison. Let us do everything so that by morning this house is already ours.”

Marta listened to her own voice and, for the first time, could say nothing.

But at the end of the recording another voice was heard—low, unfamiliar, and calm.

“If you use this tape to defend my sister, first find out who this house actually belongs to…”

Nino knocked the phone out of my hand.

“Alvaro, that voice does not belong to Marta. And whoever calls you now probably already knows that you have returned…”