At that point, I had to decide whether to continue pretending everything was normal or finally tell the whole truth. I chose the latter, but without drama.
“My mother threatened to burn my hair with a lighter today,” I said, and I said it as if I were reading a bill. “She grabbed me. She did it because I refused to give her my savings.”
Sergio looked up.
—Did you report it?
“Not at that moment,” I admitted. “I left. But… I recorded it.”
I pulled out my phone. It wasn’t a perfect video; it was only audio, because I activated it in my pocket when I saw his expression change. I could hear the sounds of the kitchen, the click of the lighter, my breathing, and his words: “You’ll learn the hard way.” Then my father calling my name in a trembling voice.
Ofelia remained motionless. Sergio clenched his jaw.
“This changes the approach,” he said.
Instead of arresting me for “theft,” they took my statement as that of a victim of threats and coercion, and they filed my mother’s false report as a possible fabrication of a crime. What they hadn’t considered was that by bringing the police into my life, they were also bringing them into theirs.
That night, I returned home with a summons and clear advice: don’t contact my mother, don’t go to Guadalajara alone, and tighten security. I did. I changed the locks. I installed a peephole camera and a doorbell with recording function. Not out of paranoia: for survival.
The next day, the second surprise arrived: my bank called me.
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