The next morning, neighbors arrived with coffee — and letters. Mrs. Jensen described how I cared for Mr. Alvarez long before marriage. Mr. Ruiz wrote about watching him teach Mateo to clap. A teenage neighbor shared screenshots of Victor complaining in a group chat about “waiting for the old man to die.”
It made me sick.
But it also made me feel less alone.
The day before the ruling, a woman pulled into the driveway. Victor’s sister, Melissa. Expensive sunglasses. Controlled posture.
“I don’t want to fight,” she said.
I said nothing.
“That house is family property,” she insisted.
“It was his,” I replied. “He built his life there.”
“He was old. Confused.”
“People talk,” I said quietly. “They talked when none of you visited him.”
Her composure cracked. “You want money.”
“I want my son to keep his father’s home,” I said. “And I want you to stop pretending love is impossible just because it’s inconvenient.”
“You’ll regret this,” she muttered before leaving.
The hearing arrived heavy and electric. I dressed simply. Mateo wore his best outfit. The courthouse hallway was crowded — neighbors standing behind me like a wall.
Victor leaned close. “Last chance to be smart,” he whispered.
I stayed silent.