Chapter 5 - Day Three: The Eviction & The Locks Changed
The sidewalk on Calle Niños Héroes looked like a flea market of humiliation.
Doña Lucha sat on her wooden armchair right on the concrete curb, her purse clutched in her lap like a shield, glaring hatred at every passerby who dared to look her way. Around her feet were thirty-two black garbage bags, bulging with worn clothes and unwashed sheets.
Brenda was frantically arguing on her phone with a taxi driver who refused to haul six overstuffed cardboard boxes and two children in a sedan.
Iván walked down the front steps of the building slowly, holding his small canvas duffel bag—the only bag he had packed for himself.
When he reached the sidewalk, he turned around and looked up at the third floor.
The window of Apartment 302 was wide open.
Renata was standing there. She had taken off her coat, rolled up her black turtleneck sleeves, and was holding a bucket of soapy water and a scrub brush. Beside her stood Jimena, chatting quietly while sipping from a paper cup of coffee.
Iván took a step back toward the main building gate, his voice rising in one final, desperate cry.
“RENATA!” he screamed up at the third floor. “RENATA, PLEASE! LOOK AT US! WE HAVE NOTHING!”
Up on the third floor, Renata paused. She set her scrub brush down on the sill and leaned out slightly into the cool afternoon air.
The entire street went quiet. Doña Lucha looked up. Brenda stopped shouting at her phone. The neighbors on their balconies leaned over the railings to hear.
“You have everything you chose, Iván!” Renata’s voice echoed down across the street, clear, strong, and completely unshakeable. “You chose your brother’s violence! You chose your mother’s arrogance! You chose your own cowardice! Now go live in the choices you made!”
Iván felt his knees give way. He stumbled backward, collapsing onto a cardboard box filled with Saúl’s old shoes.
Upstairs, the locksmith finished installing the final brass plate of the new electronic lock. He turned to Renata, handing her a sleek black keycard and a small slip of paper with a four-digit PIN code.
“All set, ma'am,” the locksmith said with a polite nod. “Double-bolted, anti-pick steel frame, digital keypad. Nobody gets through this door without your code.”
Renata took the keycard. She walked over to the front door, stepped into the hallway, and pulled the heavy steel door shut.
CLICK-CLACK-BEEP.
The digital lock engaged with a solid, heavy, permanent sound that resonated through the quiet hallway.
Renata closed her eyes for three seconds.
She stood alone in the entryway of her apartment. The air no longer smelled like cold soup, reheated tortillas, or cheap beer. It smelled like bleach, soapy water, and fresh winter air blowing through the open windows.
She walked back into the living room, picked up her phone, and dialed Jimena’s assistant, Carlos.
“Carlos?” Renata said, a gentle smile breaking across her face for the first time in three days. “Bring Mateo home.”
Ten minutes later, small, energetic footsteps came running up the concrete stairs.
Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap!
The front door chimed as Carlos scanned the keycard. Mateo burst into the apartment, holding his wooden toy train in one hand and a half-eaten green apple in the other.
He stopped in the middle of the living room.
His small eyes went wide. He looked at the vast, empty space. He looked at the clean floor. He looked at the sunshine streaming through the spotless glass windows.
No stacks of suitcases blocking the hallway. No broken beer bottles under the couch. No angry uncle shouting at the television. No grandmother scolding him for making noise.
“Mama?” Mateo whispered, turning around to look at Renata, who was kneeling on the floor with her arms open wide. “Where did everybody go?”
Renata pulled her son into her arms, burying her face in his soft, hair that smelled like baby shampoo and apples. She squeezed him tight against her heart, feeling his warm, steady breathing against her chest.
“They went away, mijo,” Renata whispered gently into his ear, tears finally slipping down her cheeks—not tears of pain, not tears of fear, but clean, hot tears of absolute relief. “They went away, and they are never, ever coming back.”
Mateo pulled back slightly, looking into his mother’s face. He reached out one small, chubby finger and gently touched the faint yellowish mark on her right cheek where the bruise was fading.
“Does it hurt, Mama?”
May you like
Renata took his little hand, pressed a deep kiss into his palm, and smiled.
“Not anymore, Mateo,” she said softly. “It doesn't hurt at all.”
