“They kicked me out.”
Mateo looked up at my parents and sister, still standing in the doorway.
He didn’t yell.
He didn’t argue.
Instead, he opened the glove compartment, pulled out a blue folder and his phone, and said in a voice so cold it made my mother step back:
“No one move. You’ve just ruined your own lives.”
He helped me into the car gently, secured Alba, and before driving off, took photos—my torn hair, the bags on the sidewalk, and my family standing there.
At the hospital, doctors documented everything: the strain on my surgical wound, the hair injury, and signs of coercion against a post-surgery patient.
That same night, Mateo called the police.
I gave my statement from a hospital bed, repeating every word my family had said. Mateo handed over the photos, medical reports, and messages from my sister—where she insisted her baby “deserved the best room” and that I was “just taking up space.”
What the police didn’t know—and what my family had hidden for years—was that the apartment in Getafe didn’t actually belong to my parents.
