Even to me, it felt different.
Javier left half an hour later, convinced he’d won—just like always.
At eleven, I left the kids with my neighbor, Nuria.
I put on a beige blazer, took a folder from the bottom drawer of my desk, and drove our smaller car to a notary office on Serrano Street.
Inside that folder were the documents for the house.
A property my father had given me five years before I got married—legally mine alone.
I didn’t argue.
I didn’t call Lucía.
I didn’t beg.
I did one thing.
Sitting across from the notary, I said clearly:
“I want to list the house for sale today.”
That same afternoon, Javier walked through the door—and froze when he saw a real estate agent taking photos of the living room.
The color drained from his face.
To be continued in the comments
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