Chapter 3 - The Siege of Calle Morelos
Ten days after Thanksgiving, my phone—which I had unblocked just to monitor emergency notifications—began buzzing incessantly.
First came a text from Mom:
“Ethan, please! Please pick up the phone! Some lawyer delivered the most terrifying papers to the house today! They’re saying we have to buy the house or move out in thirty days! Your grandfather won't return our calls! Please talk to him, you’re breaking our family apart!”
Then came a text from Claire:
“You miserable, backstabbing piece of shit. You couldn't just keep paying your share like a normal person? You had to run crying to Grandpa like a baby because your ego couldn't handle paying eight hundred bucks? Now my kids might be homeless because of your petty revenge! I hope you rot!”
I stared at the screen, reading Claire’s message twice. No remorse. No accountability. Just unmitigated entitlement, blaming me for the consequences of her own freeloading existence.
I didn't reply. I simply blocked her number permanently and walked into Grandpa’s study to show him the screenshots.
Grandpa read them, let out a dry, dismissive chuckle, and tossed my phone back onto the desk.
“Let them squirm,” Grandpa said, pouring himself another cup of coffee. “Desperation is the only teacher that ever worked on Robert. When a man spends his whole life believing he’s the king of his castle, letting him find out he’s just a squatter in someone else’s building is a very healthy educational experience.”
That afternoon, Grandpa decided we needed to run some errands in downtown Guadalajara, specifically to visit his accountant and pick up some documents from his primary commercial office near Avenida Chapultepec.
We rode in the back of Grandpa’s black Mercedes sedan, chauffeured by his trusted driver, Mateo. As we pulled up to the curb near the office building, I noticed a familiar gray sedan parked illegally in the red zone just twenty feet away.
Before Mateo could even kill the engine, the passenger door of the gray sedan flew open, and my father tumbled out, looking like a man who hadn't slept in a week. His hair was uncombed, his shirt was wrinkled, and dark purple circles bruised the skin beneath his eyes.
Right behind him came Claire, her face red and blotchy from crying, clutching her handbag like a weapon.
“Dad! Arthur! Stop!” my father screamed, rushing across the sidewalk toward our car before the security guards could intercept him. He slammed his palms against the tinted window of the Mercedes. “Arthur! Open the damn door! We need to talk right now!”
Grandpa sighed, looking out the window with mild irritation, like a landowner dealing with persistent stray dogs. He pressed the button to lower the window an inch.
“Robert, make an appointment through Licenciado Morales like a civilized person,” Grandpa said coldly.
“An appointment?!” Dad shouted, his voice cracking with panic. “Dad, are you out of your mind?! They served us papers! They’re saying we owe four million pesos or we have to leave the house by Christmas! Where are we supposed to go? Where are Claire and the boys supposed to live? On the street?!”
Claire pushed past my father, leaning down so her face was visible through the gap in the window. Her eyes were blazing with wild, desperate fury.
“Is this what you wanted, Ethan?!” she shrieked, pointing a shaking finger right at me where I sat quietly in the back seat. “Are you happy now that your own family is facing eviction just because you couldn't handle pitching in eight hundred lousy pesos a month?! You ruined our lives over a petty grudge!”
I looked right back at her, feeling a profound, ice-cold detachment.
“I didn't ruin your life, Claire,” I said calmly, lowering the window the rest of the way. “You ruined your own life by expecting everyone else to carry you forever. You’re thirty-two years old. Try getting a job and paying your own rent for once.”
Claire looked as if she wanted to lunge through the window and claw my eyes out. “You little monster—”
“That’s enough,” Grandpa’s voice boomed through the open window, carrying an authority that instantly froze them both in their tracks. He didn't raise his voice, but the sheer freezing chill in his tone made Dad step back instinctively.
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“Robert,” Grandpa said, looking at his son with utter disdain. “For thirty-two years, you enabled your daughter’s laziness, drained my resources, and treated your youngest son like an ATM machine and a basement servant. You built a house of cards on lies, exploitation, and favoritism. Now the wind is blowing. Fix your own life. Because I am done doing it for you.”
Grandpa pressed the button, and the window glided up smoothly, shutting out their desperate screams, the honking traffic of Avenida Chapultepec, and thirty years of inherited emotional abuse in one single, quiet motion.
