Chapter 5 - THE HOUSE WITH BLUE SHUTTERS
My mother’s house stood at the end of a narrow road lined with dry stone walls.
She had planted rosemary by the gate.
Every time I arrived, I brushed it with my hand.
This time, I forgot.
There were tire tracks across the gravel and a metal storage container beside the garage.
Elena parked.
“Did you authorize work?”
“No.”
A contractor came around the side carrying a measuring tape.
“You must be the owner.”
“I am.”
He smiled.
“Your husband said you’d be away.”
Behind him, the terrace railing lay in pieces.
Inside, my mother’s dining table had been pushed against a wall beneath a plastic sheet.
Paint samples covered the kitchen counter.
Someone had taped a floor plan over the spot where she marked my height as a child.
I peeled it back.
The pencil lines were still there.
Clara, age nine.
For a moment, I couldn’t hear anything.
Then the contractor spoke.
“Mrs. Morales?”
“Who hired you?”
“Mrs. Rivas. Her son handles payments.”
“Please stop work.”
His expression tightened.
“We have a contract.”
“Not with me.”
I showed him my identification and the ownership document on my phone.
He stared at them.
Then he called his crew.
“Pack the tools. We’re done until this gets sorted.”
His name was Tomás.
He wasn’t happy, but he handed me a copy of the paperwork.
A property management agreement.
Another false signature.
A clause allowing Mercedes to accept reservations and authorize alterations.
“How much have you been paid?” I asked.
“Four thousand upfront.”
“How much are you owed?”
“Another six.”
Elena exhaled sharply.
There were people beyond our family inside this mess now.
Real people with wages and bills.
A young woman appeared at the gate carrying a garment bag.
“Excuse me. Is Mercedes here?”
“No.”
“I’m Lucía. We’re meeting the photographer.”
She looked past me toward the house.
“My wedding’s next month.”
I felt sick.
“How much did you pay?”
“Eight thousand.”
Her smile disappeared.
“Is something wrong?”
I wanted to soften the answer.
That habit had already cost enough.
“I own this property. I never agreed to rent it.”
Lucía’s garment bag slipped from her hand.
Before either of us moved, my phone rang.
Mercedes.
I answered.
“You went to the house,” she said.
No greeting.
May you like
No apology.
Then, in a voice as calm as dinner, she added, “If those weddings fall apart, I’ll make sure every bride knows it was your decision.”
