I looked at him without screaming, without trembling.
“I want three things,” I said. “First, they give me back what they took from me, with a payment plan. Second, a restraining order if my mother threatens me again. Third, no one ever uses my name for anything again.”
My mother burst into a venomous laugh.
—A restraining order? Against your mother?
“Against someone who grabbed my hair with a lighter,” I replied. The title “mother” doesn’t erase that.
Daniela started to cry.
“My wedding!” she said. “You’ll ruin it!”
I looked at her with an old-fashioned weariness.
—You already ruined my life when you agreed to let my money be yours.
The mediation ended without an agreement because my mother refused to acknowledge anything. She wasn’t interested in finding a compromise; she was interested in winning. So we went to court.
The proceedings were accelerated by the false accusation and the bank evidence. My mother received a formal summons. She tried what she always did: calling aunts and cousins, stirring up public opinion. “Valeria is crazy, the house has made her arrogant.” But this time there were documents, not rumors.
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