In daylight, I acted fine because I had to. I made oatmeal. I wiped spit-up from my shoulder. I answered emails one-handed while rocking the stroller with the other. I told myself the law was the law. But the law had never tried soothing a teething baby at three in the morning.
On the third day, my lawyer called to “prepare me emotionally,” which was his polite way of saying brace yourself. He explained that Victor and the other nephews weren’t just alleging fraud. They were suggesting something worse — that Mr. Alvarez hadn’t been mentally sound, that I manipulated him, that my pregnancy had been some calculated performance.
I almost laughed. It came out brittle.
The “performance” was now a toddler who refused to nap. The real theater was them demanding the house like it was a sweater that didn’t fit.
After the call, I held Mateo tighter. He smelled like shampoo and milk and innocence. I whispered promises into his curls that I wasn’t sure I could keep.
That afternoon, I walked next door into Mr. Alvarez’s kitchen. It still carried the faint scent of coffee and cinnamon. The silence inside felt personal, like the house was listening.