“Because now your parents are around,” I said. “And you don’t want the Mexican peasant embarrassing you.”
Her voice hardened.
Then she mentioned Maria.
That was the moment everything ended.
I hung up without another word.
I opened the folder I’d avoided for months.
Bank statements.
Mortgage transfers.
Payment histories.
Proof of how much I had bled to keep them afloat.
Canceling the mortgage took less than five minutes.
“Effective immediately,” I said into the phone.
That night, I burned five years of bank statements in my fireplace.
Watched the paper curl and blacken.
Poured myself a drink.
“Merry Christmas,” I said to the empty room.
I slept better than I had in years.
And I had no idea that within forty-eight hours, my phone would explode with missed calls.
Eighteen of them.
