The phone slipped from my hands when I heard my own daughter Elena say those words that shattered my heart. “Of course I’m not going to invite my mother. Imagine the embarrassment she’ll cause in front of Adrián’s family.” Her voice sounded so cold, so calculating, as if she were talking about discarding an old piece of furniture she no longer needed.
I stood there in the hallway of my own house, the receiver on the floor, my heart pounding so hard I thought it would burst. Sixty-four years of life, eight years as a widow, and 38 years as that child’s mother, only to discover that she considered me a disgrace.
The conversation continued on the other end of the line. Elena was talking to someone, probably María, my daughter-in-law, that third-rate influencer who’s always posting photos of the house I bought for my son Miguel. “You know how she is, Mom. Jorge will think we’re a low-class family. Well, you know what I mean. Adrián already accepts that we come from where we come from.”
“From where we come from?” Had she forgotten that thanks to where we came from, she was able to study architecture at the most expensive university in the country? That thanks to my hard work, getting up at 5 a.m. for decades to build my small real estate empire, she can now afford to be picky with her clients? My legs trembled, and I had to lean against the wall.
The wallpaper Elena chose last year when I redecorated your house, Mom, to make it look more modern. Now it seemed like a mockery. Everything in this house screamed out the money I had earned with my own hands. The same money she spent like water. “Besides, you know Mom won’t know how to behave. She’ll arrive in one of those awful dresses she buys at the market. She’ll talk too loudly. She’ll tell embarrassing stories about when we were children.” Elena let out a nervous laugh that chilled my blood. “Adrián’s family is very refined. His brother Jorge is a diplomat.” Her mother was Miss Universe in the 80s. Can you imagine my mom trying to have a conversation with those people? The phone was still on the floor, but I couldn’t move. Every word was like a dagger straight to my heart. This was the same little girl who used to crawl to my bed when she had nightmares. The same one who hugged me, crying, when the other girls made fun of her worn-out shoes. The same one who swore to me that when she grew up, she would take care of me forever. Miguel agrees with me,” Elena continued. “He also thinks it’s best that Mom not go. It’s already going to be strange enough explaining why Dad isn’t there. We don’t need any more drama.” Miguel, my baby, the son I carried in my arms for his first two years because he was so sickly. The same one for whom I paid for law school and bought his first apartment when he married María. Both of them, my two children, had decided that I was a disgrace. Elena’s laughter echoed throughout the empty house. “The best part is that she won’t even notice. Lately she’s so forgetful, so, you know, old. She probably won’t even remember that there’s a wedding.” That was when something inside me broke completely. It wasn’t just the exclusion, it wasn’t just the embarrassment, it was the underestimation. They thought I was a silly, senile old woman whom they could manipulate at will, but they didn’t know who they were messing with. I wasn’t the forgetful old lady they thought I was. I was Julieta Morales, the woman who had turned a small loan of 5,000 pesos into a real estate empire of 20 properties. The same one who raised two children alone after her husband died, working 18 hours a day so they would never lack anything. I carefully hung up the phone, as if it were made of glass. My mind was already working at full speed, like in the old days when I had to solve financial crises or negotiate with builders who thought they could trick me because I was a woman. I had learned long ago that revenge is best served cold and that patience is the most powerful weapon an intelligent woman can possess. I went to my study, that small sanctuary filled with file folders and contracts that my children had always avoided as if it were radioactive. “Mom’s boring paperwork,” Elena used to say when she was little. How ironic that that “boring paperwork” was precisely what had financed their lavish lifestyle all these years. I turned on the computer and began reviewing all the transfers I had made in the last 5 years. Elena, luxury apartment in Polanco, 400,000 pesos. Miguel, house in Las Lomas, 600,000 pesos. Elena again. BMW car, 300,000 pesos. Miguel, wedding expenses with María, 200,000 pesos. Elena, master’s degree in Europe, 500,000 pesos. The list was endless. Each transfer had a sweet, manipulative justification. “Mom, it’s an investment for my future.” “María is pregnant, and we need more space.” “It’s just a loan. I’ll pay you back in 6…
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