The house is yours again. Excellent, Jorge. And the building where Angela lives. That one is more complicated. Technically, you’ve always been the owner through the company, but we need to make some administrative changes so you have direct control. It should take another two weeks. Perfect, keep me posted.”
After hanging up, I sat in the kitchen with my coffee and thought about Angela. I’d been in Europe for three weeks and hadn’t heard from her, not a call, a text, not even a postcard. To her, I’d ceased to exist the moment she got the money she needed.
But I knew that would soon change. I decided to visit the beach house. I took the bus to the coast, the same route Roberto and I had taken hundreds of times. The house was exactly as I remembered it: small, painted cream, with a terrace overlooking the sea. The new owners had put in some potted plants, but other than that, everything was the same.
I sat across the street and watched her for an hour. I remembered the summer afternoons when Angela was little, running on the beach building sandcastles. Roberto grilling fish while I prepared salads in the kitchen. Angela bringing friends, then boyfriends, then Eduardo.
All those happy moments that she had reduced to a simple business transaction. An older gentleman came out of the house and saw me sitting there. He approached curiously. “Are you okay, ma’am?” “Yes, thank you. I’m just remembering.” I knew the former owners. Yes, I knew them very well. What a shame what happened. We were told that the older lady was very ill and needed to sell quickly.
We thought it was a bargain, but now it turns out the sale wasn’t legal. We had to return the house. They met them personally. No, we did everything through intermediaries, but we were told the daughter was handling everything because the mother couldn’t. What a sad situation. If I knew how sad it really was, I thought, well, I’m glad you guys didn’t lose your money.
Yes, luckily everything worked out well. Although now we have to look for another house. We really liked this one. I left there with a heavy heart. It wasn’t just the money that hurt. It was the ease with which Angela had lied about me. She had fabricated a story about my illness. She had used my supposed vulnerability to justify her actions.
To her, I wasn’t a person with feelings, but an obstacle to be removed. That night I called Jorge again. Jorge, I need you to help me with something else. I want to get Roberto’s car back too. That’s going to be more difficult, Mrs. Antonia. The car was in your name, but your daughter had a power of attorney allowing you to sell it.
How is that possible? Apparently, you signed that power of attorney a few months ago after your husband’s death. Don’t you remember? There it was. The moment when Angela had started planning all this. I vaguely remembered signing some papers she had brought me, telling me they were to facilitate the funeral and inheritance proceedings.
I was so confused by the grief that I signed without reading them. How naive I had been. I understand, Jorge. Is there any way to get it back? We can try, but it will be more complicated. We would need to prove that you signed that power of attorney under deception or coercion. Let’s do it. I want to get back everything they took from me. Over the next few weeks I developed a strange routine.
Continued on the next page
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