Chapter 3 - The Flying Monkeys and Family Pressure
By Monday morning, the news that the "golden goose" had finally flown the coop had spread like wildfire through our extended family.
My phone—my personal, private cell phone that I used for close friends and clients—started blowing up before 8:00 AM.
First came a voice note from Aunt Carmen, the family matriarch who specialized in guilt-tripping anyone who didn't bow down to traditional expectations of family servitude.
“Mariana, mija, what is this nonsense I’m hearing from Lorena?” Aunt Carmen’s voice crackled through the speaker, dripping with theatrical disappointment. “She is crying her eyes out because her children are stressed about school, and Rogelio can't even drive to work. How can you be so cold-hearted over a simple cake incident? Boys will be boys! Diego is just a child! You have plenty of money from your little firm, why are you punishing your own flesh and blood over a bit of frosting? Call your sister immediately and fix this before the whole family disowns you.”
I listened to the voice note while sipping my black coffee at my desk, looking out the window of my office at the bustling streets of Mexico City.
I didn't feel angry anymore. I felt an odd, liberating sense of pity. For decades, Aunt Carmen and the rest of the clan had operated on a strict social hierarchy: the men provided (or pretended to), the women endured, and anyone who dared step outside the lines of unquestioning obedience was branded as selfish, cold, and unnatural.
Before I could even set my coffee mug down, my office door swung open.
My cousin Leo stood in the doorway. Leo was Lorena’s younger brother, a smooth-talking twenty-six-year-old who drifted from one failed startup to another—largely financed by occasional cash infusions he bullied out of me under the guise of "investments."
“Mariana,” Leo said, marching into my office and slamming both hands down on my desk. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
I looked up slowly, keeping my expression entirely neutral. I didn't say a word. I just waited.
“Lorena is a wreck,” Leo continued, his voice rising in righteous indignation. “Diego is traumatized because you humiliated him in front of all those people, and now you’ve cut off their school and cars? Are you insane? Do you realize how this makes the family look?”
“Are you finished, Leo?” I asked quietly.
“No, I’m not finished!” he barked. “You need to reverse the bank transfers right now. Call the school, call the car dealership, and put Lorena’s card back on. If you don't, don't ever expect any of us to invite you to a family dinner again.”
I leaned back in my ergonomic leather chair, crossing my arms over my chest. I let out a long, slow breath, studying him the way an accountant studies a thoroughly audited, fraudulent tax return.
“Leo,” I said, my voice cutting through his theatrical anger like a scalpel. “Do you know how much money I’ve given Lorena and Rogelio over the last six years?”
Leo blinked, momentarily thrown off by the sudden pivot. “What does that matter? Family helps family. That’s what you do when you’re successful.”
“Eighty-two thousand five hundred pesos a month for private school tuition,” I listed calmly, ticking off fingers on my left hand. “Plus car payments, insurance, medical bills, summer camps, and a Cancún vacation that cost more than my car. Do you know what that totals over six years? More than six million pesos, Leo. Money I earned working twelve-hour days while Rogelio spent his afternoons playing golf and Lorena posted pictures of her designer bags on Instagram.”
“That’s... that’s an exaggeration!” Leo stammered, his bravado wobbling.
“It’s an exact accounting,” I replied, opening my laptop and turning the screen toward him. Every spreadsheet, every bank receipt, every wire transfer receipt was neatly categorized, dated, and verified. “And do you know what I got in return? Not a single 'thank you.' Not a single holiday card that didn't double as a grocery list or a request for cash. And yesterday, as a grand finale, Lorena paid her eleven-year-old son to deliberately smash my son’s birthday cake to pieces just to humiliate us and manipulate me into buying him an iPhone.”
Leo stared at the screen, his face turning pale as he scrolled through the undeniable financial records. He opened his mouth, closed it, and looked away.
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“So here is my counter-offer, Leo,” I said, standing up from my desk and walking around to tower over him. “You can leave my office right now, take your flying monkey act back to Lorena, and tell her that if she, Rogelio, or any other member of this family ever contacts me, my son, or my business again, I will release these complete financial records—along with the text messages proving extortion—to every single relative in our family group chat. And trust me... people love gossip more than they love supporting parasites.”
Leo swallowed hard, backing away toward the door. He didn't say another word. He turned around and practically jogged out of the office, the heavy glass door clicking shut behind him.
