Chapter 2 - The Notice on the Table
At eight the next morning, Sofía arrived at the hotel carrying two coffees and a leather folder.
She didn't hug me.
She knew I would fall apart if she did.
Instead, she sat across from me and opened the folder.
“Divorce petition.”
She placed down the first document.
“Temporary custody request.”
The second.
“Financial separation notice.”
The third.
Then she placed one final envelope in front of me.
“And this is the one they are going to hate.”
I read it twice.
The apartment belonged entirely to me.
Daniel had never contributed to the purchase price.
Carmen and Roberto had no lease.
Valeria had no legal right to live there.
The notice formally revoked their permission to occupy the property and demanded that all unauthorized residents vacate.
It also instructed Daniel not to sell, remove, conceal, or damage marital property while the divorce proceedings were pending.
I thought about Carmen sitting at my table with lobster butter on her fingers.
“Send it.”
Sofía nodded.
Before leaving, she asked me to do something harder.
“Take Camila to a pediatrician today.”
My stomach dropped.
“Do you think something is wrong?”
“I think we document everything.”
The examination lasted nearly an hour.
Camila was mildly dehydrated.
She was below her previous growth curve.
Her hands showed dry, irritated skin from cold exposure.
Nothing was immediately dangerous.
That should have comforted me.
It didn't.
The pediatrician asked Camila what she normally ate at Grandma's house.
Camila looked at me first.
Then she whispered.
“Sometimes Grandma says dinner is for grown-ups.”
The doctor remained expressionless.
“What do you eat then?”
“Bread.”
“What else?”
“Water.”
My fingers dug into the arms of my chair.
“How often?”
Camila shrugged.
“When Grandma is mad.”
I wanted to demand every detail.
The doctor stopped me with one look.
“Not here.”
She was right.
Camila was three.
She was not evidence.
She was my daughter.
At 11:40, the legal notice arrived at the apartment.
Daniel called twelve times.
Carmen called eight.
Valeria sent thirty-one messages.
I answered none.
At noon, Sofía forwarded me a photograph taken by the process server.
The envelope was sitting in the middle of the dining table.
The lobster shells were still there.
So were the empty wine bottles.
At 12:17, Daniel finally left a voicemail.
“This is insane.”
Another arrived.
“You cannot throw my parents out.”
Then Carmen.
“You ungrateful woman.”
Then Valeria.
“You're ruining this family.”
I listened to every message.
I saved every one.
At 1:03, Daniel sent something different.
A photograph.
My jewelry box was open.
Under it, he had written one sentence.
Come home before things get ugly.
I stared at the image.
He had made a mistake.
May you like
Because inside that jewelry box was the flash drive containing seven years of our financial records.
And Daniel had just told me he knew exactly where it was.
