Chapter 4 - The Siege of Portales
Friday morning arrived with an ominous, cold drizzle that slicked the asphalt of Calle Niños Héroes.
Inside Apartment 302, the atmosphere was a toxic mixture of panic, spite, and decay.
The seventy-two-hour deadline was set for 2:00 PM. It was now 9:00 AM.
For three years, the Morales family had accumulated an astonishing amount of garbage inside Renata’s neat, sunlit space. Broken appliances Saúl swore he was going to "fix and sell," piles of faded magazines, half-unpacked cardboard boxes from their previous failed rental, dirty rugs, and sagging furniture they had brought in without asking.
Doña Lucha sat on a wooden crate in the center of the living room, refusing to pack a single bag.
“I am not packing!” she declared, her arms crossed tight over her chest, staring at the walls. “Let them come! Let the police carry an old woman out in her chair! Let the neighbors see what kind of daughter-in-law Renata is!”
“Mother, please!” Brenda yelled, her hair wild, desperately shoving clothes into plastic black garbage bags. “Saúl is still in jail! His bail is set at twenty thousand pesos that we don't have! If we don't pack our stuff, the court officers are going to throw it all in the mud on the sidewalk!”
Iván walked into the living room holding a roll of packing tape. His eyes were red, dark circles hanging under them like bruises. He looked like a ghost of himself.
“Where are we going to put the boxes, Iván?” Brenda demanded, wiping sweat from her forehead. “Your cousin in Ecatepec said we can only stay in his garage for three days! Three days!”
Iván didn't answer. He was staring at the wall behind the dining table.
There was a light rectangular outline on the white paint—a spot where a framed photograph of Renata’s parents used to hang before Saúl had taken it down six months ago to replace it with a giant plastic beer clock.
Iván walked over, pulled the beer clock off the wall, and tossed it onto the floor. The plastic cover shattered with a sharp CRACK.
“Why did you do that?!” Doña Lucha shouted. “That belongs to Saúl!”
“Saúl ruined my life!” Iván suddenly screamed, his voice breaking into an ugly, shrill sob. He turned on his mother, his face red, his chest heaving. “Saúl hit my wife! He hit her six times in front of my son! And you sat there and told her to make coffee!”
Doña Lucha gasped, her hand flying to her throat. “Iván! How dare you speak to your mother like that—!”
“Shut up!” Iván yelled, dropping to his knees among the plastic bags, tears streaming down his face. “Just shut up! I lost my wife! I lost my son! I lost my home! Because of him! Because of you! Because I was too much of a coward to stand up to my own brother!”
Brenda stopped packing and stared at her brother-in-law. Doña Lucha looked at her younger son, her mouth open, but for the first time in her life, she found no words to defend herself.
The clock on the kitchen wall ticked relentlessly forward.
11:00 AM. 12:00 PM. 1:00 PM.
Outside on the sidewalk, a small crowd of neighbors had begun to gather near the front gate of the building.
The news of what had happened on Tuesday night had spread through the building like wildfire. The neighbors on the third floor had hated the Morales clan for years—they were loud, they left garbage in the shared stairwell, Saúl parked his beat-up pickup truck across two parking spots in the alley, and Doña Lucha constantly fought with the building maintenance manager over water fees.
At 1:30 PM, a large white moving van pulled up to the curb.
Five minutes later, a marked police cruiser arrived, followed by a sleek black sedan.
Jimena Ramos stepped out of the sedan, holding a legal binder. From the passenger side emerged Renata.
Renata wore a long beige trench coat, her dark hair tumbling loosely over her shoulders. The bruise on her cheek had faded to a light yellowish-green, and her bottom lip had healed into a thin, neat line. She looked strong, rested, and entirely composed.
As Renata walked toward the building entrance, Señora Carmen, an elderly woman who lived in Apartment 101 and had known Renata since she bought the place, stepped out onto her porch.
“Renata!” Señora Carmen called out softly.
Renata paused, turning with a warm smile. “Good afternoon, Señora Carmen.”
The older woman walked over, took Renata’s hands in hers, and squeezed them tightly.
“We heard what happened, mija,” Señora Carmen whispered, her eyes shining with fierce pride. “We saw them taking that bully Saúl out in handcuffs on Wednesday. I just want to tell you... you did the right thing. Don't you dare feel guilty for one second. That house belongs to the woman who bled to pay for it.”
Renata felt a warm surge of emotion rise in her chest. She squeezed Señora Carmen’s hands back. “Thank you, Carmen. It’s almost over.”
At 1:55 PM, Renata, Jimena, Licenciada Ortega (the judicial officer), two uniformed police officers, and a team of three professional locksmiths mounted the stairs to the third floor.
When they reached the landing of Apartment 302, the broken door was closed, held shut only by a temporary wooden latch Iván had installed the day before.
Licenciada Ortega looked at her wristwatch.
The second hand swept across the 12.
2:00 PM.
Licenciada Ortega knocked twice. “This is the Judicial Execution Officer of the First Civil Court. The seventy-two-hour grace period has expired. Open the door immediately.”
Inside, the latch slid back with a slow, hesitant click.
The door opened.
Iván stood in the doorway. He was wearing his old jeans and a dirty grey sweater. Behind him, stacked haphazardly in the center of the living room, were thirty-two black plastic garbage bags, three taped cardboard boxes, two rolled-up mattresses, and Doña Lucha’s old wooden armchair.
Doña Lucha was standing by the window, her coat on, her lips pressed into a tight, bitter white line. Brenda stood by her kids, holding two small duffel bags.
Iván looked at Renata. His eyes were wide, bloodshot, begging for a miracle that was never going to come.
“Renata...” he whispered. “Please... just five minutes alone with you... please...”
Licenciada Ortega stepped forward, her voice ringing out like a iron gong.
“Señor Iván Morales Cruz, Señora María de la Luz Cruz de Morales, Señora Brenda Gutiérrez Sandoval. By order of the First Civil Court of the Federal District, you are ordered to surrender physical possession of this premises immediately. Locksmith, proceed.”
The lead locksmith stepped past Iván with a heavy metal toolbox. Within ten seconds, he had unbolted the old lock mechanism from the door frame and begun installing a high-security, drill-resistant electronic deadbolt system.
Two movers entered behind him, grabbing the first stack of black plastic bags.
“Wait!” Doña Lucha shrieked as a mover picked up her armchair. “Don't touch my things with your filthy hands!”
“Then carry it down yourself, ma'am,” the mover replied flatly, carrying the heavy chair straight out the door and down the stairwell toward the sidewalk.
One by one, the remnants of the Morales family’s three-year invasion were carried out of Apartment 302.
Boxes of clothes, broken toys, cheap plastic dishes, dusty blankets—everything was hauled down to the street and stacked neatly on the damp sidewalk beside the curb under the watchful eyes of twenty neighboring families who watched from their balconies.
Iván stood by the living room window, watching his family’s entire life being laid out on the pavement like trash waiting for collection.
Finally, the living room was empty.
The dirty rugs were gone. The clutter was gone. The sagging foam mattresses were gone. Nothing remained except the clean parquet floor Renata had polished two years ago, and the bright afternoon sunlight streaming through the broad glass window.
Licenciada Ortega handed a metal clipboard to Renata.
“Sign here, Señora Aguilar,” the judicial officer said. “Physical repossession is complete. The property is officially restored to your sole custody.”
Renata took the pen. She signed her name in clear, flowing cursive script: Renata Aguilar M.
“Now,” Jimena said, pulling a white envelope from her coat pocket and stepping toward Iván. “Señor Morales.”
Iván turned slowly, his hands shaking. “What is that?”
“This is your formal summons for the Divorcio Incausado—unilateral divorce proceedings—along with a petition for full legal custody of Mateo Morales Aguilar and a formal restraining order prohibiting you from approaching Señora Aguilar’s person, workplace, or child’s school within five hundred meters.”
Iván looked at the white envelope as if it were a poisonous viper. He didn't reach for it.
May you like
Jimena simply set the envelope down on the clean window sill beside him.
“You have twenty days to respond through legal counsel,” Jimena said coldly. “Now please step out of my client’s home.”
