—Mom, look, nobody was kicking you out. We just thought you’d be more comfortable here, with your horses.
I looked at him then. I really looked at him. Not at the forty-one-year-old man with an expensive watch and a paid-off car; at the boy whose knees I used to clean when he fell, at the teenager I defended even when he was wrong, at the son who, without realizing it, had learned to ask me for sacrifices as if they were natural debts.
—When was the last time you asked me what I wanted?—I said to him.
He opened his mouth, but did not answer.
—That’s what I thought.
Isabel snorted.
—Viviana, you’re making a fuss over nothing. There are four bedrooms in that house. My mom only needed one.
“Your mother needed my room, according to my son’s message.”
—It was just a figure of speech.
—No. It was a way of giving orders.
The children were still there, rooted to the spot, tension seeping into their small bodies. I crouched down.
—Sofia, Diego, why don’t you go see Canela? I think she’d love for you to say hello.
They both hesitated for a second, looking at their parents. I kept my smile as best I could. Sofia took her brother’s hand and they ran off toward the stable.
As soon as they stopped listening to us, the temperature changed.
“You have to undo this,” Alfonso said, now frantic. “Call the real estate agency, call the buyer, do whatever you have to do.”
-No.
—Mom, please don’t make me talk to you like this.
—You already spoke to me like that. Yesterday in a message.
Isabel crossed her arms.
—This is a tantrum, Alfonso. Your mother is reacting like a child because she didn’t get her way.
I turned to her. I didn’t raise my voice. There was no need.
—A tantrum?
Something in my tone made her blink.
“Yes, a tantrum,” she repeated, less confidently. “A grown woman doesn’t sell a beach house because someone asked her for a small favor.”
—A small favor is someone asking you to water the plants. A small favor is picking up bread at the market. Taking me out of my house to please your mother isn’t a small favor. It’s contempt.
Alfonso ran a hand through his hair.
—Mom, Isabel didn’t mean it like that.
“Don’t tell me what Isabel meant,” I blurted out, and this time my voice did rise. “I’ve been hearing perfectly well what Isabel means for eight years.”
They remained silent.
I took a step towards them.
“I’m tired of being treated like I’m the cleaning lady who gets to clean up after you. I’m tired of coming home to find the sofas moved because your wife doesn’t like how I arrange my things. I’m tired of hearing comments about my habits, my age, and my choices, all disguised as modernity. And most of all, I’m tired of you, Alfonso, allowing all of it.”
My son’s face suddenly fell.
—That’s not how it is…
-Yes that’s how it is.
—I never meant to hurt you.
—And yet you did it.
Isabel gave a dry, venomous laugh.
—Well, now it’s clear. All this was because you felt offended.
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