Not to me.
To my daughter.
Because Ximena was a minor, I was named the legal custodian and property administrator until she became an adult.
My mother said her own mother had betrayed her.
My father said Josephine must have been confused, though everyone knew her mind had been perfectly clear. Beatrice called it unfair. Frank asked whether a child could even own a house, as if the attorney had not just answered that question in three different ways.
For once, the paper was clear.
The house belonged to Ximena.
And still, I let them stay.
That is the part I am not proud of.
I told myself my parents were older. I told myself family was complicated. I told myself moving them out would make me cruel. I told myself the house was big enough. I told myself a hundred little lies because a lifetime of being treated like you have no right to space does not disappear the moment a legal document says otherwise.
So we stayed in the same house, under the same rules, with the same comments at dinner, the same sighs in the hallway, the same way my parents made me feel like a guest in the home my daughter legally owned.
I hoped they would treat Ximena differently.
They did not.
By dinner that night in Destin, Ximena could barely sit upright.
The hotel restaurant had big windows facing the water, white tablecloths, woven pendant lights, and tourists laughing over seafood platters. My family ordered appetizers and took pictures of their drinks. Ximena’s plate sat untouched. She pressed both hands against her abdomen and breathed through her teeth.
Beatrice leaned toward Frank and whispered something.
Emiliano and Natalie laughed.
“What is funny?” I asked.
Beatrice smiled without looking at me. “Nothing, Monica. Don’t start.”