The text came at 2 a.m. like it was good news—my mother casually told me she’d sold my house while I was away, using an old legal document, and spent the money on my sister’s wedding. When I told her to stop the deal, she laughed—called me selfish, dramatic, ungrateful—and said I could “explain myself” at the family reunion.

The next ten minutes happened with the controlled velocity of every emergency relocation. Chin upstairs with Luca and a small backpack. Rodriguez in the hallway checking duffels, clearing entry points, confirming vehicles. Angela in the main bedroom throwing clothes into bags with the methodical speed of a person who has already lost too much to sentimental hesitation. Sofia lingering beside her drawing folder until she came quietly to stand near me.

“Are we doing the fast leaving?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Like the Newark apartment?”

“Faster,” I said.

She absorbed that. “Are there bad men outside?”

“Not if I can help it.”

She nodded, solemn as a treaty. “I put my important pictures in the blue folder.”

“Good.”