Chapter 4 - What Was Waiting at Home
“That has to be a mistake.”
Elena enlarged the listing.
The contact number was Marco’s.
I knew it better than my own.
My fingers moved toward the screen, then stopped.
Three days earlier, I had been in a hospital bed asking him to bring my long phone charger.
He had told me traffic was terrible.
Apparently, he had still found time to photograph the house.
“Call him,” I said.
“Not yet.”
“Why?”
“Because I want the listing saved before anyone removes it.”
Elena took screenshots, recorded the posting details, and contacted the agent named at the bottom.
Then she asked me to rest.
I laughed once.
It sounded ugly.
“My husband is selling my house.”
“Your husband has advertised your house. Those are different things.”
She said it firmly enough that I could borrow her certainty.
The next morning, I returned with Elena, my father’s driver, and a housekeeper who had agreed to help collect the baby’s belongings.
I stayed in the car while Elena rang the bell.
Donya Teresa opened the door wearing my robe.
Not a similar robe.
The pale blue one hanging on the hook behind my bathroom door.
She looked past Elena and saw me.
“Well,” she said, “the princess has come home.”
“I’m here for Mateo’s things.”
“You could have come home yesterday.”
Elena introduced herself and explained the visit.
Teresa’s smile tightened.
“Lawyers now? Over a car ride?”
Inside, packing boxes stood along the hall.
My wedding photograph leaned face down against the wall.
The bassinet from our bedroom had been moved into the dining room beside a folded rug.
“Why is that there?”
Teresa crossed her arms.
“Your husband is making plans.”
“For my house?”
“For your family.”
I walked slowly toward the dining table.
A glossy floor plan lay beneath a coffee cup. An expensive condominium development. Two bedrooms. A highlighted unit on the seventh floor.
Across the top, in Marco’s handwriting, were the words:
Mom’s room gets morning sun.
There was nothing about a nursery.
Elena photographed the paper only after I confirmed it had been left openly in my house and concerned the proposed sale.
Teresa snatched it away.
“You can’t keep him small forever.”
I looked at her.
“Is that what you call paying for the roof over his head?”
Her face changed.
Not shame.
Recognition that I had finally said something she could not pretend she had missed.
A knock sounded at the front door.
A woman stood outside holding a folder.
May you like
Behind her, a man carried a measuring tape.
“We’re here for the viewing,” she said. “Marco said his wife already approved the sale.”
