Thomas would be home in an hour. I decided not to argue further. Let her believe the lie a little longer.

I went to the bedroom, locked the door, and called him.

“Hi,” I said calmly. “Your mother just broke a vase and is throwing me out. She says the apartment is yours. Care to explain?”

There was a long, uncomfortable pause.

“Sophie… you know how she is,” he muttered. “I didn’t want to upset her. I told her we bought it together. That I was the main provider.”

“Calmer now?” I asked. “She’s kicking me out of my own home. You lied for three years?”

“I just… exaggerated,” he said weakly. “I’m on my way. We’ll talk then.”

I ended the call and stood still, listening to drawers slam and footsteps pacing the kitchen. Marta wasn’t backing down—she was settling in, as if the place already belonged to her.

I walked back out.

“Done talking?” she sneered. “Then start packing. I won’t tolerate you here much longer.”

“I’m not leaving,” I replied calmly, surprising even myself. “This is my apartment. And it will stay that way.”

“We’ll see,” she scoffed. “Thomas will tell the truth.”

For the first time, I smiled.

“The truth doesn’t need to be summoned,” I said. “It arrives on its own.”