He replied at 7:11 a.m.
Send the will, deed, and any residency agreements.
There were no residency agreements.
There had only been guilt.
Two days later, Ximena was cleared to travel carefully. I drove us home slowly, stopping whenever she needed to shift position or rest. My phone kept lighting up with vacation photos. My family had stayed behind, posting sunsets, pool chairs, dinners, captions about family time. Each picture made the decision inside me settle deeper.
When we reached the house, Andrea was already waiting.
The formal notice was printed, signed, and clipped neatly in a folder on the kitchen island.
I did not hide it.
I placed it in the center of the counter where everyone dropped keys, sunglasses, receipts, and mail as if the house belonged to them.
Then I waited.
Three days later, the front door opened to rolling suitcases, sunburned faces, and my mother complaining about traffic.
My father came in first.
My mother followed.
Beatrice stepped in behind them, still wearing resort sandals, her hair braided like she had returned from a life that never touched hospitals.
They all stopped when they saw me sitting at the kitchen table.
Andrea sat beside me.
My mother noticed the folder first.
She picked it up, read the opening lines, and turned red.
“What is this?”