Chapter 4 - The Eviction of Poison
The rain began to fall over Mexico City on Thursday afternoon, turning the jacaranda trees along Insurgentes into a blur of dark green and grey.
Diego and I returned to the house in Lomas de Chapultepec—not to stay, but to pack Valentina’s nursery items and retrieve our personal belongings before filing the formal property injunction.
The house was dead silent when we unlocked the front door. The marble floors, usually polished to a mirror shine, felt cold and unwelcoming.
Ernesto was sitting alone at the massive dining room table, a glass of water untouched before him. He looked ten years older than he had a week ago. His silver hair was uncombed, and his tailored suit looked rumpled.
“Diego,” Ernesto murmured, standing up slowly as we walked into the foyer. He didn't look at me; his eyes were fixed entirely on his son. “She’s gone. Her sister came and picked her up this morning. She’s staying in Jalisco indefinitely. The legal team… they won’t press charges if we handle this quietly, right?”
Diego stopped dead in his tracks. He looked at his father with a cold, piercing detachment that mirrored the way Carmen used to look at me.
“Dad, you spent thirty years watching her belittle everyone around her,” Diego said, his voice echoing off the high ceiling of the foyer. “You watched her treat Mariana like an intruder. You probably even noticed the scars on my arms when I was a kid and chose to look the other way because it was easier than confronting her.”
Ernesto flinched as if he had been struck. “I was providing for this family—!”
“You were cowardly,” Diego interrupted sharply. “And because of your cowardice, my daughter nearly lost her life in this very house. We are filing the charges, Dad. Every single one of them. If you try to shield her, you’ll be named as an accessory.”
Ernesto sank back into his chair, covering his face with his weathered hands. No words came out. Just the heavy, broken breathing of a man who realized too late that the empire he built was built on top of a mass grave of human collateral.
Upstairs in the nursery, I packed Valentina’s clothes, her pink blankets, her favorite stuffed bunny, and the framed ultrasound pictures we had cherished before all of this madness began. As I lifted the last box, my eyes fell on the vanity mirror where Carmen used to stand, applying her expensive cosmetics, murmuring about standards, heritage, and perfection.
May you like
I didn’t feel anger anymore. I felt lighter.
We carried the boxes out to our car, loaded them into the trunk, and drove away from Lomas de Chapultepec—leaving behind the ghosts, the bleach, and the poisonous obsession with a color that never mattered in the first place.
