Part 4 — My mother announced before everyone that my sister was moving into my house, but after my answer Mariana’s smile disappeared from her face

Rodrigo’s phone fell to the floor and the screen cracked in two.

The police officer twisted his hands behind his back.

“Mr. Rodrigo, you have to come with us.”

“I’ll call a lawyer,” he said.

“We already called one,” Nino replied.

Rodrigo looked at her.

“You are my lawyer!”

“I’m not anymore,” Nino said. “From the moment I learned that you planned to take possession of the client’s property.”

My mother sat down on a chair. The pink napkin lying beside her slowly folded beneath her fingers.

Mariana, meanwhile, was still looking at the screen.

“Mom, why did you tell me that Elena was simply too stubborn?”

Teresa moved her lips, but could not make a sound.

“Because you were supposed to help me too,” she finally said.

Mariana flinched.

“I didn’t know anything!”

“You knew that you were supposed to move into the house.”

“I thought you had talked to Elena.”

“I told you that you would handle it yourself.”

Silence fell over the hall.

For the first time I understood that Mariana had not been the author of the entire plan. She had simply been living inside a story invented by my mother. That did not justify her behavior, but it gave a different shape to the anger that had arisen in my heart.

The officers searched Rodrigo’s bag. Inside they found a copy of my identity document, a duplicate of the house key, and a document titled: “Temporary Property Use Agreement.”

My name was written on it.

The signature was not mine.

Rodrigo shouted for the first time then:

“Teresa told me that Elena would sign in the end anyway!”

My mother raised her head.

“Be quiet.”

“No! You started everything!”

I watched them and felt a strange calm. As if an invisible rope that had hung over me for years had suddenly snapped.

The police also took my mother for questioning. Mariana stayed. Her hand rested on her stomach, but now neither her mother nor Rodrigo stood beside her.

“Elena, I have to apologize to you,” she told me.

“Did all this have to happen for you to apologize?”

She lowered her eyes.

“I’m ashamed.”

“Shame is not enough. Your things have to be removed by tomorrow.”

“Where should I go?”

That question returned me to the morning when I too had only one bag, and when I entered the house my diploma was lying on the floor.

“To the apartment that is in your name,” I told her. “If you can no longer maintain Rodrigo’s company, that is already for you and him to decide. But you will not touch my house again.”

Mariana nodded.

The next morning the phone rang.

It was Rodrigo’s number.

I did not answer.

He called a second time.

A third time.

Then he left a voice message.

“Elena, everything got out of control. If you withdraw the complaint, I’ll return the money to you. Just give me time.”

I sent the recording to Nino.

“Does this count as a threat?” I asked.

“Not only as a threat,” she answered me. “It is a confession.”

That same week the case was officially opened. The bank canceled the application, the company suspended its operations, and Rodrigo’s remaining property was inventoried to cover the debts.

I did not greet this news with joy.

Someone else’s fall did not feel like victory.

It felt more like removing heavy furniture from a room—first there is noise, then dust, and finally you can suddenly breathe.

Three days later I was scheduled for a face-to-face meeting with Rodrigo at the investigative service. There was a table, two chairs, and a clock hanging on the wall in the room. Its hands moved loudly every second.

Rodrigo came in, and for the first time he was no longer wearing an expensive jacket. He had on a white shirt, the collar loosened, and his eyes were bloodshot.

“I never wanted to destroy you,” he said.

“But you were ready to make my property the guarantee for your debt.”

“I thought family would help me.”

“Family asks for help. Family does not change the lock behind your back.”

The investigator turned on the recording.

His voice sounded in the room again:

“If Elena doesn’t sign, we will lose everything.”

Rodrigo lowered his head.

When it sounded for the second time, his fingers tightened on the chair.

When it sounded for the third time, he closed his eyes.

“Did I say this?” he asked quietly.

“You said it,” I answered.

It was hardest for him to hear his own words.

And I understood that for years I had always remembered what other people said, but for the first time I no longer needed their explanations. The facts spoke for themselves.

A month later Mariana finally left my house. The smell of green paint still remained in the guest room. A small wooden crib stood by the wall, and it could no longer be returned to the store.

I left the room empty.

The morning sun entered through the window and drew a long bright strip on the floor.

In the closet, on the upper shelf, I found my grandfather’s compass. That morning I had taken it out of my bag and put it on the table because my hand was trembling. Now its copper was covered with drops of paint.

I cleaned it with a cloth.

The small needle still pointed north.

Three months later I started a new job in Mérida. I was no longer working for the maritime company on constant business trips; I moved to the port-planning department. At seven in the morning I went to the office, on the way I bought a cinnamon bun at the same bakery, and in the evening I turned on the light at home only when I truly wanted to return home.

Mariana moved with her child into a small apartment. The divorce process with Rodrigo began. Once she brought the child, Mateo, to me. He sat down on the floor and drew a house on a sheet of paper.

“Is this your house?” I asked.

“Not ours,” he said. “Yours. The door is big here.”

There was also a small round object depicted in his drawing.

“What is this?”

“Your magic compass. So you don’t get lost.”

I looked at the paper for a long time.

“I don’t get lost anymore, Mateo.”

Several weeks later my mother sent me a letter. The court’s judgment had not yet been issued, but she needed my statement for conditional release. The letter said that she regretted that she had done everything only for the well-being of the family and that now we could again start everything over.

I read the letter twice.

Then I called Nino.

“Do I have to answer?” I asked.

“Only if you want to.”

I sent my mother a short message:

“I am not seeking revenge against you. But I will no longer save you from your decisions either. What happened, you have to take responsibility for yourself.”

The answer came immediately.

“You are my daughter.”

Several minutes later, another one:

“Family does not abandon one another.”

I put the phone on the table.

Then I wrote:

“Family does not evict one another from the house either.”

And I closed the conversation.

That evening I opened the window of the guest room. The smell of fresh paint had finally disappeared. I had left the walls white again. I did not want the color of someone else’s plan to remain in my house.

I placed the compass on the windowsill.

Outside, the first snow was falling—rare in Mérida, light, and almost silent. Snowflakes fell onto the copper surface and melted immediately.

I put my hand on the compass.

It was still showing me the right direction.

This time I chose the path myself.