When they entered my flat, I already knew they were coming.
The camera in the hallway sent a notification two minutes before they arrived.
My parents were their usual selves: my mother with a folder of documents, my father with a tape measure and an expression on his face as if he were back in the meeting room. Julia was slightly behind, her hand on her rounded belly. Marcus was carrying a bag of groceries, smiling. He always smiles — until he sees the bill.
I watched them through my phone screen from the neighbouring building, where I was renting a room while my flat was being renovated.
Except there was no renovation.
There was a plan.
After that conversation, I pretended nothing had happened.
‘Dinner at my place on Saturday? I’ll cook,’ I wrote.
‘Perfect,’ my mother replied.
Four days to set the stage.
I made a list, as if I were seeing a patient:
Close the old rental account.
Rewrite the contract for the new company.
Remove them from the guest list.
Set up a hidden audio recording.
But most importantly, get to the point where everything becomes clear even to them.
Don’t prove it, don’t punish them.
Just show them.
Saturday
I set the table. Like Florida and childhood: arroz con polo, flan, salad with lime.
The windows were wide open, the smell of the ocean, the sound of the wind — everything seemed almost gentle.
They arrived at six o’clock sharp.
Mum was first, with a box of pastries, as if bringing a blessing.
Dad — with the same ‘I’ve got this figured out’ look.
Julia — radiant, confident.
Marcus — tired, as if he already knew he’d have to be the mediator.
We ate and laughed awkwardly. I talked about work, Mum talked about the neighbours, Julia talked about her child. Everything was as usual, except the air was thick as tar.
I put down my glass and said calmly:
‘Julia, how’s the flat hunt going? Found anything within your budget?’
Silence.
My father took the initiative:
‘We thought it would be logical for her to live with you for now. You have two rooms, after all. Family comes first.’
I nodded as if I agreed.
Then I took out my phone and turned on the recording. My father’s voice — the same one from the camera:
‘Once Julia settles in, Marina won’t have the heart to ask her to leave…’
The fork fell from my mother’s hands. Julia turned pale.
Marcus stopped smiling.
Only my father spoke:
‘You’ve got it all wrong.’
I smiled:
‘I’m a psychologist, Dad. Understanding is my job.’
The envelope
I took out the envelope and slid it across the table to Marcus.
He opened it.
Inside were copies of Julia’s messages to the estate agent, dated three weeks ago.
Subject: ‘How soon can we transfer the lease to my name?’
Marcus looked up, and for the first time, there was no trust in his eyes.
‘You were planning to move without telling me?’
Julia started crying. Mum exclaimed:
‘Marina, how could you? She’s pregnant!’
I looked at her.
‘I was born once too. And you didn’t choose me either.’
File
I took out a folder, thick and neatly organised.
It contained screenshots, bills, old letters. Everything they had ‘forgotten’:
my paid loans, transfers, signatures where I had saved them from debt.
‘This isn’t revenge,’ I said calmly. ‘This is history.’
I opened the folder and added:
‘Now for something important.’
I turned on the television. An image appeared on the screen — a recording from the camera.
They were in my living room. Dad was measuring the wall, Mum was taking out my clothes, Julia was smiling, saying:
‘This room will be perfect for a child.’
Dad stood up, looking angry:
‘Did you record us?’
‘No. It’s a security camera. For intruders.’
Pause.
The silence was thick, like in a doctor’s office before a patient’s confession.
Marcus pushed his chair back.
‘I’m leaving.’
‘Sit down,’ I said quietly. ‘That’s not all.’
I took out a small bunch of keys and put them on the table.
‘These keys don’t open anything anymore. The flat you measured, Dad, isn’t mine. I sold it on Wednesday.’
Mum pressed her lips together.
‘Sold it? You’re crazy!’
‘Maybe. But now it’s not your home. And it’s not mine.’
I took out a second envelope, smaller than the first.
“Do you know what’s on the door of my new address now?
“MAYAK — Psychological Assistance Centre”.
My office. My territory. Without the boundaries you consider yours.
The Rift
The silence was replaced by whispers. Julia tried to speak, but the words wouldn’t come out.
Father suddenly slumped in his chair, as if he understood something.
Mother turned away towards the window.
Only Marcus stood up and walked to the door.
‘Is this the end?’ he asked.
I nodded.
‘It’s the beginning.’
He looked at Julia, then at me.
‘She said you don’t know how to forgive.’
‘I just stopped allowing it.’
The denouement
When they left, I was alone.
The room smelled of flan and salt.
I turned off the audio and saved the recording to the cloud. Then I cleared the folder, envelopes, and empty plates from the table.
Only a bunch of old keys remained on the linen path.
There was a knock at the door.
Marcus.
Wet, confused.
‘Marina… I didn’t know. I just thought I was helping the family.’
I held out my hand to him.
‘It’s not your fault. But now you know what control looks like — it always smiles.’
He wanted to say something, but an envelope fell out of his pocket.
I picked it up. It had my father’s handwriting on it.
Address: Palisades Condominium, Penthouse 14.
‘What’s this?’
Marcus hesitated.
‘Your father’s Plan B. He wanted to sell your flat long before this.’
I laughed — quietly, dryly.
‘Of course. He always likes to be one step ahead.’
I opened the envelope.
Inside was a copy of the sales contract.
Signed: Marina D. Flores. Forged.
The End
I looked at the city. The sunset was reflected in the windows of the skyscrapers.
Now everything was simple.
I am a witness. I am proof.
I am a person who knows how to draw boundaries.
In the evening, I sent the documents to the solicitor and opened a new folder on my laptop:
‘Family. Protocol No. 1.’
The title of the first entry:
‘How I diagnosed the house.’
My silhouette was reflected on the screen — calm, collected, and behind me — the golden light of Miami.
I typed my last message:
‘Thanks for dinner. The next one is on you.’
And I pressed Send.
The window slammed shut in the wind, and three keys remained on the table — none of them for any door.
