PART 2
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“When we leave here, that house won’t be yours anymore, Mariana… you’ll finally understand that you’re not in charge in this family.”
Claudia whispered it in my ear, just before the court clerk called our case. She said it with such a calm, confident smile, as if she could already picture herself drinking coffee on the terrace of my house in Tepoztlán, gazing at the mountain from a chair she’d never paid for.
My mother, Doña Elvira, sat behind her with her expensive purse on her lap and that proud look she only wore when Claudia did something. My father, Don Armando, pressed his lips together, serious, as if he were the moral judge of the whole family .
To them, I was always the awkward daughter. The one who left home without asking permission. The one who didn’t get married at 25. The one who preferred to start a real estate management company rather than organize family meals to impress my aunts.
Claudia, on the other hand, was “the blessing.” The sweet daughter, the exemplary wife, the one who always needed financial help but was never complained about. If Claudia cried, everyone rushed to her aid. If I cried, they told me I was strong and not to exaggerate.
The house in Tepoztlán
was the only thing they thought I owned. A spacious house, with white walls, bougainvillea at the entrance, and a small pool that I bought after years of working Sundays, Christmas, birthdays, and even when I was sick. It was my rest. My reward. My peace.
And now my sister, along with her husband, Esteban, was trying to take it from me with a fake document.
We entered the room. Esteban walked as if he owned the building. He wore a gray suit, shiny shoes, and had that look of a man who thinks the world can be bought with connections. As he passed by me, he murmured:
“It’s best not to make a scene. Your parents are already quite disappointed in you.”
I didn’t answer. I sat down next to my lawyer, Benjamín Ortega, a calm man who had been telling me for weeks, “Let them speak first.”
Judge Patricia Medina entered and everyone stood. Claudia’s lawyer began in a solemn voice:
—Your Honor, my client requests that the private agreement signed by her sister, Mariana Aguilar, be respected, in which she voluntarily cedes the family property located in Tepoztlán, considering that the defendant has no children or a family project that justifies keeping a property of that value.
I felt my mother nodding behind me.
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Therein lay the real wound: for them, a woman without a husband and without children didn’t deserve a big house. Much less a beautiful house. Much less a house that her favorite sister had envied for years.
The lawyer handed over the document. My supposed signature appeared at the end, clumsy and slanted, as if someone had tried to copy it in a hurry.
Claudia wiped away a fake tear.
“I just want what she promised to be fulfilled,” he said. “That house should stay in the family.”
The judge scanned the sheet without emotion. Then she looked at another document. She frowned. She turned another page. She looked up at me.
—Miss Aguilar, this property appears registered in the name of a patrimonial company.
—That’s right, Your Honor.
Claudia stopped crying.
The judge read it again.
—Is Tepoztlán one of your properties?
Silence weighed heavily on everyone.
I looked at my sister. Then at my parents.
—Yes, Your Honor—I replied. One out of 12.
Claudia’s smile vanished as if someone had ripped off her mask.
I couldn’t believe what was about to happen…
What would you have done if your own family tried to take away what took you years to build?
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