I came home without warning and found my son dying… while my daughter-in-law was having a party…
I returned home without warning and found my son dying… while my daughter-in-law was celebrating a party…
I came home unannounced. After completing my last mission, I discovered that my son was dying alone in the intensive care unit. Meanwhile, my daughter-in-law was partying with her friends on a yacht in the Sea of Cortez. So, I immediately froze all the accounts. An hour later, she went crazy when she found out.
I’m glad you’re here. Stay until the end and tell me from which city you’re watching my story. I want to know how far it has gone. I stepped into La Paz International Airport just as the sun began to rise, a golden light streaming through the terminal’s windows.
The old military suitcase, worn at the corners, rested at my feet like a faithful traveling companion for over 40 years. On my wrist, my father’s pocket watch gently vibrated every time I moved, as if reminding me of the promise I made to myself in my youth: to always return home. That promise weighed more than ever. Now.
At 61, having just retired from my last mission, I had dedicated my entire life to the Mexican Marines. From hostage rescue operations in Houston to endless days evacuating people during that devastating earthquake. But today I just wanted to be a mother. Eager to hug Miguel, my son.
After so many years, I dragged the suitcase out of the baggage claim with the same speed and precision as always. Outside, the morning sun was already beginning to scorch. I raised my hand to hail a taxi. I got in and told the driver, “420 Las Palmas Street, please.” I tried to keep my voice calm, but inside, emotion hit me like the waves of the nearby ocean.
I imagined Miguel opening the door with a radiant smile, sitting us down at the table and talking about everything I had missed. In just half an hour, I would be on the road with my son. The radio blared with news from the Navy, reports I used to hear daily, now they meant nothing to me.
Yesterday, I had concluded my last strategic advisory mission for NATO on a counterterrorism operation in South America. 40 years of career, from stopping arms smuggling at the border to sleepless nights in the jungle, were left behind like distant memories.
I gazed silently out the window. The blue ocean stretched infinitely. The waves sparkled as if trying to pull me back to those days. But my mind was only with Miguel and the small house where I had placed so many hopes. The taxi took the familiar coastal road, where the palm trees still swayed, just like the day I left. But when it stopped in front of Miguel’s house, I felt a lurch in my chest. The house was dark. The curtains were closed. Not a light on.
I carried my luggage up to the porch, a sharp unease growing inside me. I rang the doorbell. The sound echoed in the silence, with no response. I knocked harder. And again. Nothing. A strange silence, as if the house had been abandoned. I went down to the garden and looked around. The mailbox was full of crumpled flyers.
They piled up on the path as if no one had cleaned it in a long time. My heart raced. A dark feeling pressed on my chest. I had sent money punctually to Miguel and Valeria, my daughter-in-law, to support the family. I thought everything was fine, that my son was living without problems.
But now, in front of that cold house, I wondered what was going on. Just then, I saw Doña Teresa, Miguel’s neighbor, watering flowers across the street. She had lived here since I was a young girl, always kind and telling stories about the neighborhood children. I shouted, “Doña Teresa.” She lifted her head, her eyes wide open in surprise.
“Valentina! God! You’re back. But you haven’t heard anything.” I hurried to cross, my legs almost trembling at hearing her voice. “What about? Where is Miguel?” I asked, trying to keep my voice from breaking. Doña Teresa set the watering can down with a look full of compassion. “Miguel has been in San Rafael Hospital for two weeks. The ambulance came at midnight. I clearly saw the logo on the vehicle.”
She paused and continued in a lower tone. “And Valeria, my son, told me he saw a post of yours on social media. She’s partying on a yacht in the Sea of Cortez.” I froze, as if the whole world had collapsed beneath my feet. Miguel in the hospital.
Two weeks and Valeria, my daughter-in-law, whom I entrusted with my son’s care, partying on a yacht. I felt the blood stop running through my veins, my heart pounding with painful stabs. “Do you know where San Rafael Hospital is?” I asked in a hoarse voice. Doña Teresa nodded and pointed the way.
Without thinking any longer, I went out to the street and raised my hand to stop another taxi to San Rafael Hospital. “As fast as you can,” I told the driver, almost in a commanding tone. Dozens of questions crowded my mind. What had happened to my son that required urgent transport? And my daughter-in-law? How could she be celebrating a luxury party while my son lay sick in a hospital?
Sitting in the taxi, I felt my heart burning in my chest. I gripped the pocket watch tightly, so tightly that my knuckles turned white. Miguel, my son, the boy who ran after me on the beach, who hugged me every time I returned from my long work trips. Now he was in a hospital. And I, the mother who had dedicated my life to protecting the country. I didn’t even know my son needed me. I blamed myself for the months and years, sending only money, believing that was enough for him to have a good life.
But now I just wanted to reach Miguel, to see him, to know he was alive, that he was okay. The taxi stopped in front of the entrance to San Rafael Hospital, and the midday sun dazzled me. I paid the driver, dragged my suitcase through the entrance, and tried to control my breathing to avoid the panic threatening to overflow.
The lobby was crowded, with voices, footsteps, and the intercom calling patients like chaotic music. I went straight to the reception desk where a young nurse was reviewing files. “I’m looking for Miguel Pérez,” I said with a dry voice, as if each word cost me an enormous effort. The nurse looked up, glanced at me for a moment, and quickly flipped through some papers.
“He’s in intensive care. 5th floor, room 512,” she replied in a mechanical tone, as if it were just another routine announcement. I didn’t have time to thank her and rushed towards the elevator. “Please hold the door,” I asked as it was about to close.
A middle-aged man extended his hand to stop it and waited for me to enter the narrow cabin. The penetrating smell of disinfectant hit me, and I had to hold back the urge to vomit. When the doors opened on the 5th floor, the ICU hallway stretched cold and silent, only broken by the constant beeping of medical equipment. I walked quickly, my old military boots echoing with a dry thud on the tiled floor.
Room 512’s door was ajar, and a white light filtered in from inside, making me hesitate for a moment. I gently pushed it open, as if afraid to break something fragile. Miguel was there, in the white bed, surrounded by tubes and machines. His eyes were closed, his face pale, so thin that I could hardly recognize him.
The respirator was fitted to his mouth. Each breath was so weak that I held mine to listen. My heart felt heavy. This wasn’t my Miguel. He wasn’t the boy who ran after me on the beach. Not the man who hugged me tightly every time I returned from a work trip. He was just a shadow, a shattered version of my son.
A doctor was in the corner of the room with a badge that read Julián. He was reviewing the indicators on the screen, his gaze focused but cold. He turned to me and asked, “Are you family of the patient?” I nodded with a choked voice. “I’m the mother, Valentina.” He nodded slightly, pointing to Miguel.
“He has terminal stomach cancer. The situation is very serious. If he had been treated earlier, it might have been different.” His voice was flat, as if he were talking about any case, but every word was a knife in my chest. “Cancer. Terminal phase,” I repeated with a trembling voice, not believing what I was hearing.
An hour earlier, I had imagined hugging him, listening to him tell me how his days had been without me. I thought I would see him healthy, smiling. Not like this, trapped between lifeless machines. “How did this happen? Why didn’t anyone tell me?” I asked almost pleading. Dr. Julián shook his head with a flash of compassion. “No one has come to see him since he was admitted.”
“We tried to contact the family, but it was not possible. No one came to see him.” That phrase hit me directly in the chest. Valeria, my daughter-in-law, whom I entrusted to care for Miguel. Where was she? I remembered Doña Teresa’s words. The social media post. The yacht. The parties. The rage burned me, but it was drowned out by the pain.
I approached the bed and took his cold hand. His skin was thin as paper, with marked blue veins. “Miguel, it’s mom,” I whispered, holding back tears. “I’m here now, son.” Suddenly, his lips moved, his eyelids fluttered, and he opened his eyes. They were cloudy, but with a familiar glimmer. “Mom,” he murmured so weakly that I had to lean in to hear him.
“Mom, I love you.” Before he could finish, the heart monitor emitted a long, high-pitched beep that cut through the air. I clung to his hand. “Miguel. No, son.” I screamed, but Dr. Julián pulled me away, calling the nurses. “Get out. Let us work,” he ordered firmly. They took me out into the hallway. I looked out the window while the nurses rushed around. Machines beeped. Urgent voices.
Everything was mixed together. I covered my face, crying uncontrollably. “Please, don’t take him away,” I repeated, as if that could hold him back. But minutes later, Dr. Julián came out. He took off his gloves and shook his head. “I’m very sorry,” he said in a grave voice. “We did everything possible.” I felt emptied inside.
My legs gave way, and I stumbled out of the ICU without daring to look at the white sheet covering his face. Miguel was gone. Just when I had returned, I hadn’t had the chance to tell him how much I loved him or that I regretted leaving him alone. I stood in the hallway, under a cold white light, feeling an immense void, as if the whole world had collapsed.
I pulled out my phone with trembling hands and dialed Valeria’s number. On the other end, loud music, laughter, and voices could be heard, as if she were in the middle of a party. “What’s wrong?” Valeria answered in a dry tone, with no interest whatsoever. I took a deep breath, trying to keep my voice steady. “Miguel died.”
There was a moment of silence, and then she replied as if she were talking about the weather. “Oh. I’m busy. We’ll talk later.” The call ended. I stood still. The phone slipped from my hand and fell to the floor. Valeria didn’t ask anything. She showed no sadness. She was partying while my son had just taken his last breath. I turned around and walked toward the hospital exit. Outside, the sun was still shining, but I felt only cold.
A cold that penetrated to my bones. I had lost Miguel, and now I knew I had also lost faith in the only person I had ever called family. Valeria, whom I thought would take care of my son, had betrayed us in the cruelest way. I exited through the doors of San Rafael Hospital. The midday light hit me squarely in the face, but all I felt was an icy emptiness inside.
My legs felt heavy, as if each step was an effort not to collapse. I don’t remember how far I walked, only that I had to reach the administrative office to process Miguel’s death certificate. The word “death” resonated in my head like a hammer blow, shattering any hope that might remain. My son, the boy I raised and loved with all my heart.
Now he was just a paper, a stamp, a name in a hospital file, in the administrative office. A young nurse with her hair tied back in a high ponytail handed me a clear plastic bag. “These are Mr. Pérez’s belongings,” she said in a soft voice, hurried by the routine of a workday.
I took the bag with trembling hands and looked through the plastic. Inside was Miguel’s watch, the worn leather wallet I gave him for his 20th birthday, and his phone with a scratched screen. I opened the wallet looking for something of his, a trace of the life he had lived, but it was empty.
Only his documents remained and an old photo with crumpled corners. Miguel and I were at the beach. He was just a boy, with a radiant smile and a red kite in his hand. I pressed the photo against me, as if letting go of it would make my memories of my son fade away. I also asked the doctor for Miguel’s entire medical history.
“Another doctor?” “No.” Dr. Julián entered with a thick file in his hand. “Here is the complete history,” he said, leaving the stack of papers on the table. I flipped through the pages, admission dates, tests, and the final diagnosis. Terminal gastric cancer with metastasis. I stopped. My vision blurred as I read that line.
The doctor next to me lowered his voice. “If he had been brought in a few months earlier, he might have lived one or two more years. But when he was admitted, his condition was already too grave.” I nodded, unable to speak, feeling my chest tighten. One or two years. If I had been home, I would have noticed more.
If I hadn’t let Valeria handle everything, Miguel might have had a chance. “Who is the primary contact person?” I asked in a hoarse voice to the on-duty nurse nearby. She checked her notebook and replied, “Valeria López. We’ve called several times and sent messages, but we haven’t been able to contact her.” I froze, as if I had been slapped.
Valeria, the same person to whom I sent money every month, in whom I trusted to care for Miguel. She didn’t show up. Not only had she abandoned my son, but she hadn’t even responded to the hospital when they tried to reach her. I closed my fists, digging my nails into my palm until I felt a burning sensation. At that moment, Miguel’s phone vibrated inside a plastic bag.
The screen lit up with Valeria’s name. I stared at that name with my heart racing. Part of me wanted to answer, scream at her, ask how she could be so cruel. But I didn’t. I couldn’t face her cold voice. Not after everything that had happened. I let the phone ring until the screen went dark. Then I put the bag back in my purse and left the administrative office.
I went to the morgue where they had taken Miguel to prepare him for the funeral. The employee handed me a document asking me to sign it to transfer him to the military funeral home. I took the pen, but my hand trembled so much that the signature came out in scrawls. “Is everything alright?” the man asked, looking at me with concern. I nodded, but I knew I wasn’t.
“How could I be when I just lost my only son?” I finished signing. I got up and left the morgue, feeling like each step dragged a huge stone. As I exited the hospital, I finally let the tears fall. I stood by the curb, the sun burning my shoulders. But I felt nothing but pain.
Pain for Miguel for having endured his last days alone without his mother by his side, with no one to hold his hand. I blamed myself for the years I spent absorbed in work, in my missions around the world. I thought sending money was enough. That Valeria would take care of him. But I was wrong. The biggest mistake of my life was leaving my son in the hands of someone like her. In the midst of pain and regret, Valeria’s image reappeared.
Sharp and cruel. I remembered her cutting voice on the phone, the loud music, the laughter on a yacht. She spent my money, the money I sent to care for Miguel on luxuries while my son fought for his life. Not only did she abandon him, but she was indifferent to knowing he had died. That cruelty was like a sharp knife, cutting me inside, filling me with pain and rage.
I wanted to scream. Confront her. Ask her why she treated Miguel this way, but I knew it wasn’t yet time. I had to stay calm and do what was best for my son, even though he was no longer here. I pulled out my phone and dialed the number of Lieutenant Colonel Javier Ortega, an old army friend who now worked at the Military Financial Administration Agency.
“Javier, I need to see you today,” I said firmly, though the tears continued to stream down my cheeks. “Valentina, what’s wrong? Are you okay?” he asked with concern. “I’ll tell you when we meet. Please, get me an urgent appointment.” Javier immediately agreed and asked me to come to his office by the end of the afternoon.
I hung up feeling I had just found a small foothold amid the storm that enveloped me. I took a taxi and returned to Miguel’s house at 420 Las Palmas Street. Sitting in the seat, I gripped my father’s pocket watch tightly, the same one I had carried with me for 40 years. It was the symbol of the promise to return home. But now I knew I had returned too late.
In front of Miguel’s door, I felt the keychain jingle softly in my hand as I searched for the right key. My fingers touched a small cold key, the one I had kept all these years like a thread that kept me connected to my son. I opened the door, and a musty, stale smell hit me head-on. As if the house had been forgotten for a long time.
I flipped the switch, and the yellow light illuminated a disordered living room. Wine glasses with dried remnants lay strewn on the table. Dust covered the wood, and empty fast-food boxes piled up on the floor. I stood still, looking around. This had been Miguel’s home. The place where I thought my son lived happily with Valeria.
But now it was nothing more than chaos. Just like my heart at that moment. I dragged the suitcase, left it by the old sofa, and walked to Miguel’s desk in the corner. A brown envelope lay discarded among papers. I opened it and felt my heart pound as I reviewed each of the invoices it contained.
One clearly stated Yacht rental. Sea of Cortez, $150,000. Paid with Miguel Pérez’s credit card. The date was from last week, right when Miguel was in the ICU. I moved on to the next one, and my blood boiled. Cartier jewelry $195,000. Date three days ago. I gripped the paper so tightly that my nails dug into my palm.
Valeria had used my son’s money. The money I sent to take care of him, to rent a yacht and buy jewelry. While Miguel fought for his life. I pulled out my phone. I photographed each invoice, every figure, every date, and carefully saved them in a separate folder. Each click was like a stab to the chest.
But I couldn’t stop. I needed proof. I needed the truth to confront Valeria. I opened the video call app and dialed her number. The screen lit up, and Valeria appeared, standing on the deck of a yacht with the deep blue sea in the background, laughing with her friends. She wore a silk dress with a huge Chanel logo on the front.
Expensive sunglasses and a cocktail in hand. That image was like a slap in my face. “What’s going on?” Valeria asked in a distracted tone, as if I were bothering her. I took a deep breath and kept my voice as calm as possible, though inside I was burning. “You know Miguel has died, and you’re still so calm.”
Valeria’s face froze for a few seconds, her lips tightened, and then she shrugged. “Yeah, I know, but he’s been sick for a long time. There was nothing I could do. Dying was just a matter of time.” She said it softly, as if she were talking about something trivial, not the death of her husband. Of my son. I felt the blood boil in my veins as if my whole body was on fire.
“Do you think I don’t know where the money went? The money I sent to care for Miguel?” I said in a voice as cold as ice. “Yachts, jewelry, parties. I saw it all in the statements.” Valeria raised an eyebrow and smirked. “That money is mine too. Aren’t we family?” That phrase was like the final stab.
“Family?” She dared to call this family after letting Miguel die alone in a hospital. I looked directly at the screen and said in a steely voice, “This is the last party you’re going to pay for with my money.” I hung up the phone, not giving Valeria a chance to say anything else.
My hands trembled, but it wasn’t from fear; it was from the rage burning inside me. I couldn’t let her continue. I couldn’t allow her cruelty to go unpunished. I dialed Lieutenant Colonel Javier Ortega’s number, an old army friend who now worked at the Military Financial Administration Agency. “Javier, I need your help,” I said as soon as he answered.
“Valentina, are you okay? What’s going on?” His voice sounded concerned, but I didn’t have time to explain everything. “I’m coming to your office right now. Please have the documents ready.” Javier immediately agreed and asked me to come to his office by the end of the afternoon.
I hung up, feeling like I had just found a small foothold amid the storm that enveloped me. I took a taxi and returned to Miguel’s house at 420 Las Palmas Street. Sitting in the seat, I gripped my father’s pocket watch tightly, the same one I had carried with me for 40 years. It was the symbol of the promise to return home. But now I knew I had returned too late.
In front of Miguel’s door, I felt the keychain jingle softly in my hand as I searched for the correct key. My fingers touched a small cold key, the one I had kept all these years like a thread that kept me connected to my son. I opened the door, and a musty, stale smell hit me head-on. As if the house had been forgotten for a long time.
I flipped the switch, and the yellow light illuminated a disordered living room. Wine glasses with dried remnants lay strewn on the table. Dust covered the wood, and empty fast-food boxes piled up on the floor. I stood still, looking around. This had been Miguel’s home. The place where I thought my son lived happily with Valeria.
But now it was nothing more than chaos. Just like my heart at that moment. I dragged the suitcase, left it by the old sofa, and walked to Miguel’s desk in the corner. A brown envelope lay discarded among papers. I opened it and felt my heart pound as I reviewed each of the invoices it contained.
One clearly stated Yacht rental. Sea of Cortez, $150,000. Paid with Miguel Pérez’s credit card. The date was from last week, right when Miguel was in the ICU. I moved on to the next one, and my blood boiled. Cartier jewelry $195,000. Date three days ago. I gripped the paper so tightly that my nails dug into my palm.
Valeria had used my son’s money. The money I sent to take care of him, to rent a yacht and buy jewelry. While Miguel fought for his life. I pulled out my phone. I photographed each invoice, every figure, every date, and carefully saved them in a separate folder. Each click was like a stab to the chest.
But I couldn’t stop. I needed proof. I needed the truth to confront Valeria. I opened the video call app and dialed her number. The screen lit up, and Valeria appeared, standing on the deck of a yacht with the deep blue sea in the background, laughing with her friends. She wore a silk dress with a huge Chanel logo on the front.
Expensive sunglasses and a cocktail in hand. That image was like a slap in my face. “What’s going on?” Valeria asked in a distracted tone, as if I were bothering her. I took a deep breath and kept my voice as calm as possible, though inside I was burning. “You know Miguel has died, and you’re still so calm.”
Valeria’s face froze for a few seconds, her lips tightened, and then she shrugged. “Yeah, I know, but he’s been sick for a long time. There was nothing I could do. Dying was just a matter of time.” She said it softly, as if she were talking about something trivial, not the death of her husband. Of my son. I felt the blood boil in my veins as if my whole body was on fire.
“Do you think I don’t know where the money went? The money I sent to care for Miguel?” I said in a voice as cold as ice. “Yachts, jewelry, parties. I saw it all in the statements.” Valeria raised an eyebrow and smirked. “That money is mine too. Aren’t we family?” That phrase was like the final stab.
“Family?” She dared to call this family after letting Miguel die alone in a hospital. I looked directly at the screen and said in a steely voice, “This is the last party you’re going to pay for with my money.” I hung up the phone, not giving Valeria a chance to say anything else.
My hands trembled, but it wasn’t from fear; it was from the rage burning inside me. I couldn’t let her continue. I couldn’t allow her cruelty to go unpunished. I dialed Lieutenant Colonel Javier Ortega’s number, an old army friend who now worked at the Military Financial Administration Agency. “Javier, I need your help,” I said as soon as he answered.
“Valentina, are you okay? What’s going on?” His voice sounded concerned, but I didn’t have time to explain everything. “I’m coming to your office right now. Please have the documents ready.” Javier immediately agreed and asked me to come to his office by the end of the afternoon.
I hung up feeling like I had just found a small foothold amid the storm that enveloped me. I took a taxi and returned to Miguel’s house at 420 Las Palmas Street. Sitting in the seat, I gripped my father’s pocket watch tightly, the same one I had carried with me for 40 years. It was the symbol of the promise to return home. But now I knew I had returned too late.
In front of Miguel’s door, I felt the keychain jingle softly in my hand as I searched for the right key. My fingers touched a small cold key, the one I had kept all these years like a thread that kept me connected to my son. I opened the door, and a musty, stale smell hit me head-on. As if the house had been forgotten for a long time.
I flipped the switch, and the yellow light illuminated a disordered living room. Wine glasses with dried remnants lay strewn on the table. Dust covered the wood, and empty fast-food boxes piled up on the floor. I stood still, looking around. This had been Miguel’s home. The place where I thought my son lived happily with Valeria.
But now it was nothing more than chaos. Just like my heart at that moment. I dragged the suitcase, left it by the old sofa, and walked to Miguel’s desk in the corner. A brown envelope lay discarded among papers. I opened it and felt my heart pound as I reviewed each of the invoices it contained.
One clearly stated Yacht rental. Sea of Cortez, $150,000. Paid with Miguel Pérez’s credit card. The date was from last week, right when Miguel was in the ICU. I moved on to the next one, and my blood boiled. Cartier jewelry $195,000. Date three days ago. I gripped the paper so tightly that my nails dug into my palm.
Valeria had used my son’s money. The money I sent to take care of him, to rent a yacht and buy jewelry. While Miguel fought for his life. I pulled out my phone. I photographed each invoice, every figure, every date, and carefully saved them in a separate folder. Each click was like a stab to the chest.
But I couldn’t stop. I needed proof. I needed the truth to confront Valeria. I opened the video call app and dialed her number. The screen lit up, and Valeria appeared, standing on the deck of a yacht with the deep blue sea in the background, laughing with her friends. She wore a silk dress with a huge Chanel logo on the front.
Expensive sunglasses and a cocktail in hand. That image was like a slap in my face. “What’s going on?” Valeria asked in a distracted tone, as if I were bothering her. I took a deep breath and kept my voice as calm as possible, though inside I was burning. “You know Miguel has died, and you’re still so calm.”
Valeria’s face froze for a few seconds, her lips tightened, and then she shrugged. “Yeah, I know, but he’s been sick for a long time. There was nothing I could do. Dying was just a matter of time.” She said it softly, as if she were talking about something trivial, not the death of her husband. Of my son. I felt the blood boil in my veins as if my whole body was on fire.
“Do you think I don’t know where the money went? The money I sent to care for Miguel?” I said in a voice as cold as ice. “Yachts, jewelry, parties. I saw it all in the statements.” Valeria raised an eyebrow and smirked. “That money is mine too. Aren’t we family?” That phrase was like the final stab.
“Family?” She dared to call this family after letting Miguel die alone in a hospital. I looked directly at the screen and said in a steely voice, “This is the last party you’re going to pay for with my money.” I hung up the phone, not giving Valeria a chance to say anything else.
My hands trembled, but it wasn’t from fear; it was from the rage burning inside me. I couldn’t let her continue. I couldn’t allow her cruelty to go unpunished. I dialed Lieutenant Colonel Javier Ortega’s number, an old army friend who now worked at the Military Financial Administration Agency. “Javier, I need your help,” I said as soon as he answered.
“Valentina, are you okay? What’s going on?” His voice sounded concerned, but I didn’t have time to explain everything. “I’m coming to your office right now. Please have the documents ready.” Javier immediately agreed and asked me to come to his office by the end of the afternoon.
I hung up feeling like I had just found a small foothold amid the storm that enveloped me. I took a taxi and returned to Miguel’s house at 420 Las Palmas Street. Sitting in the seat, I gripped my father’s pocket watch tightly, the same one I had carried with me for 40 years. It was the symbol of the promise to return home. But now I knew I had returned too late.
In front of Miguel’s door, I felt the keychain jingle softly in my hand as I searched for the right key. My fingers touched a small cold key, the one I had kept all these years like a thread that kept me connected to my son. I opened the door, and a musty, stale smell hit me head-on. As if the house had been forgotten for a long time.
I flipped the switch, and the yellow light illuminated a disordered living room. Wine glasses with dried remnants lay strewn on the table. Dust covered the wood, and empty fast-food boxes piled up on the floor. I stood still, looking around. This had been Miguel’s home. The place where I thought my son lived happily with Valeria.
But now it was nothing more than chaos. Just like my heart at that moment. I dragged the suitcase, left it by the old sofa, and walked to Miguel’s desk in the corner. A brown envelope lay discarded among papers. I opened it and felt my heart pound as I reviewed each of the invoices it contained.
One clearly stated Yacht rental. Sea of Cortez, $150,000. Paid with Miguel Pérez’s credit card. The date was from last week, right when Miguel was in the ICU. I moved on to the next one, and my blood boiled. Cartier jewelry $195,000. Date three days ago. I gripped the paper so tightly that my nails dug into my palm.
Valeria had used my son’s money. The money I sent to take care of him, to rent a yacht and buy jewelry. While Miguel fought for his life. I pulled out my phone. I photographed each invoice, every figure, every date, and carefully saved them in a separate folder. Each click was like a stab to the chest.
But I couldn’t stop. I needed proof. I needed the truth to confront Valeria. I opened the video call app and dialed her number. The screen lit up, and Valeria appeared, standing on the deck of a yacht with the deep blue sea in the background, laughing with her friends. She wore a silk dress with a huge Chanel logo on the front.
Expensive sunglasses and a cocktail in hand. That image was like a slap in my face. “What’s going on?” Valeria asked in a distracted tone, as if I were bothering her. I took a deep breath and kept my voice as calm as possible, though inside I was burning. “You know Miguel has died, and you’re still so calm.”
Valeria’s face froze for a few seconds, her lips tightened, and then she shrugged. “Yeah, I know, but he’s been sick for a long time. There was nothing I could do. Dying was just a matter of time.” She said it softly, as if she were talking about something trivial, not the death of her husband. Of my son. I felt the blood boil in my veins as if my whole body was on fire.
“Do you think I don’t know where the money went? The money I sent to care for Miguel?” I said in a voice as cold as ice. “Yachts, jewelry, parties. I saw it all in the statements.” Valeria raised an eyebrow and smirked. “That money is mine too. Aren’t we family?” That phrase was like the final stab.
“Family?” She dared to call this family after letting Miguel die alone in a hospital. I looked directly at the screen and said in a steely voice, “This is the last party you’re going to pay for with my money.” I hung up the phone, not giving Valeria a chance to say anything else.
My hands trembled, but it wasn’t from fear; it was from the rage burning inside me. I couldn’t let her continue. I couldn’t allow her cruelty to go unpunished. I dialed Lieutenant Colonel Javier Ortega’s number, an old army friend who now worked at the Military Financial Administration Agency. “Javier, I need your help,” I said as soon as he answered.
“Valentina, are you okay? What’s going on?” His voice sounded concerned, but I didn’t have time to explain everything. “I’m coming to your office right now. Please have the documents ready.” Javier immediately agreed and asked me to come to his office by the end of
